Conflict of Interest
by prosewanderer
Summary: When Cullen is ordered to arrest Marian Hawke it puts strain on their budding relationship. As they become more intimate, both are forced to examine their intentions and the consequences of their actions.
1. Chapter 1

When the Knight-Captain was ordered to arrest Marian Hawke he convinced himself she would surrender peacefully into his custody. Cullen rehearsed the encounter in his mind until he thought he knew what he would say, and what she would say, and when he knocked on the door to the manor he felt confident.

"Knight-Captain, how good to see you," Bodahn said, upon answering. He led him to the study on the second floor, where Hawke was writing at her desk. She smiled when she saw him, and he realized it was the first time he'd ever regretted seeing that smile.

"Serah Hawke, I wanted to discuss a personal matter with you," he said, taking the chair she offered, which conveniently put him between her and door.

"Messere, we're about to leave," Bodahn said.

"Thank you, Bodahn."

"Messere, are you sure you don't need anything?" the dwarf asked.

Hawke nodded. "It's all right. You've done well."

Bodahn bowed and left. Cullen could hear the dwarf talking to his son outside, in a gentle tone, and the boy responding in his simple way.

"I've been meaning to talk to you, actually," Hawke was saying. She paused, listening, and when the sound of door closing echoed up to them, she said, "I wanted to talk about… us." Her eyes searched his. "I hope I'm not out of line."

The timing was abysmal. He'd been waiting for an opportunity for this very conversation, but now that he had his orders it was the last thing he wanted to hear. The word 'us' felt like lead in his chest. He certainly didn't want her to confide anything that would make his job more difficult. "Serah Hawke, I should speak first." He wanted to say more, to let her know how he felt, but it wasn't appropriate and it changed nothing. "The Knight-Commander has ordered me to bring you to the Circle," he said simply.

He expected to see shock or surprise on her face, but her expression was carefully neutral. Her eyes flicked to the door behind him. She was likely regretting that she'd offered him a chair blocking the exit.

"Where's your backup?" she asked, her voice cool, completely divested of the warmth it held moments earlier.

"If you come with me peacefully, there will be no need for reinforcements."

She swallowed. "I see," she said, rising. "May I get a few things?"

He didn't know what she intended to do and he wasn't going to find out. "You must come with me immediately," he said, rising to block her way. It put their physical differences in stark relief—she was graceful and lithe, he was a wall of armor and leather towering over her. He wasn't fooled by the contrast. He'd seen her fight once and it was enough. He'd been careful to gloss over any mentions of her in his reports, but he'd never forgotten how dangerous she was.

"Cullen," she said, circling cautiously.

He caught her arm. The last time he'd touched her, it was to give her a flower he'd plucked from an overhanging branch. He'd been careful then, not wanting to bruise the petals or her hand. Now, his grip was a vise.

"This is not easy. Please understand, Serah Hawke."

She abruptly closed the distance. Immediately, his attention was on her hands, checking to see if she had a weapon or was preparing a spell. He didn't appreciate what she was actually doing until her lips were against his.

She tasted almost exactly as he'd imagined. The kiss lingered; her mouth was warm, her lips slightly parted, and he recognized the invitation. He relaxed his grip.

"If this is our only chance to be together," she whispered, "I want to take it."

"Marian," he said, steeling himself, forcing himself not to follow her when she drew back. He knew that if they kissed again, his resolve would crumble. "I'm sorry, I truly am, but I have a duty—"

Almost too late, he realized she was pulling away. He grabbed for her, catching the back of her robe, and she shook free. He lunged, grazing her with reaching hands, and she was out the door.

"Marian," he said, following closely.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed.

The fear in her voice sent a chill straight to his heart, but doggedly, he pursued her. He blocked the stairs, and when she saw there was no other escape, she threw herself into him. She hit him hard, harder that he would have thought possible for someone her size, forcing them both off-balance.

He had the abrupt sensation they were falling. Reflexively, he drew her into his embrace, shielding the back of her head with an armored hand as they rolled down the stairs. The journey felt a lot longer than it looked. When they hit the first floor and fell into a heap, he was slightly dazed. He could feel her struggling out from under him, and he regained his bearings enough to grab her leg and drag her back, pinning her under his weight.

She struggled with the futility of a moth trapped in an armored fist.

"Have some dignity," he growled, trying to focus. His head was still ringing.

"If I told you I loved you, would you stop?" she whispered.

And there it was. He'd thought she might be different, but it was true what they said—in the end, a mage cornered was always the same.

"Marian, please, give me some credit," he said. "You would do anything to keep from being taken to the Circle." His head was clearing now, enough that he could register how angry she was a split second before she slapped him.

It hurt more than it should have. He caught her by the wrist before she could do it again. He could see angry tears forming, just at the corners of her lashes, and he willed himself not to acknowledge them.

"If I fail to bring you, the Knight-Commander will announce the order for your arrest. Do you understand?"

She wasn't listening. She was intent on hitting him with her other hand. He grabbed the offending wrist, forcing her still. "This is the only way I can guarantee your safety. Do you understand?" he repeated. She was panting. They both were. He could feel her breath on his neck. She was scarlet with exertion, anger, something.

"If I mean anything to you, take me to the Chantry," she said.

"Sanctuary, if granted, will only delay the inevitable," he told her. "If you're sincere, if you truly do have feelings for—"

"Oh, we passed that on the stairs," she said. "I'm not going to let you throw it in my face."

It was strange, but those words hurt more than being hit, and he reacted as though she'd struck him. "What did you expect would happen?" he snapped. He was angry with her, and with himself, and he knew he was crushing her wrists, but in that moment he didn't care. He wanted to leave a bruise, he wanted to inflict pain like she had.

"I don't know what I expected," she said bitterly, unflinching. "You're heavy. Let me up."

He obliged. He offered her a hand, and she refused it, preferring to stand on her own. "One more escape attempt," he said, "and I'll restrain you."

"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction," she said. Her anger had subdued—or been bottled up or stamped down, at any rate—and her tone was business-like now, almost clinical. "May I leave a letter for my household, since they depend on me?"

"I'm sorry, Serah Hawke," he said. He wasn't going to risk any more delays. If she made another escape attempt, she might just succeed.

It was an exceedingly unpleasant trip to the Gallows. She stood at the helm of the boat, arms crossed, hair tousled by the wind, staring ahead and never looking back. In the distance, the harsh spires of the island prison loomed to greet her, just as it did for the mages who came before.


	2. Chapter 2

He saw her at the evening chant in the chapel outside the barracks. He visited the chapel often, always standing in the back so others might have a seat, and it was from this vantage point that he recognized the graceful curve of her neck several rows ahead. The Canticle of Transfigurations was being recited, and as he watched, she mouthed the words.

_Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him._

_Foul and corrupt are they_,

_Who have taken His gift_,

_And turned it against His children._

_They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones._

_They shall find no rest in this world_,

_Or beyond._

He'd seen her in the Chantry once, after her mother's death. It was the only time he'd ever seen her cry. The pain he felt, when he saw her pain, made him realize he had feelings for her. And with that realization came a new kind of pain: he'd taken this road before, and it was not meant to be. As long as she'd been outside the Circle, there was a chance things might be different. But she was in the Circle now, and it was his duty to protect her from all things: herself, demons, bloodmagic, Meredith, himself.

After the chanting, Hawke greeted the Sister warmly and knelt for a blessing. He'd never really thought of her as religious— merely tolerant, as she'd openly expressed sympathies for followers of the Qun. Perhaps he didn't know her as well as he thought.

When she rose, he caught her eye, but she turned away.

He greeted the Sister in turn, kneeling. "You are troubled," she observed. Her touch was light on his shoulder. "Have peace, Knight-Captain. We are on the Maker's time."

He reflected on this. The simplest truths often required the deepest contemplation.

* * *

He learned that Hawke was spending most of her days in the library and he sought her out there. He expected it to be an uncomfortable meeting, but when she glanced up from her book with a gaze that was positively withering, it occurred to him that 'uncomfortable' might not quite be the right word.

"Serah Hawke," he said.

"Knight-Captain," she replied, curtly. Then, in a lower voice, she asked, "Have you come to apologize?"

"No," he told her, matching her tone. "I won't apologize for doing my duty."

"Of course. Your duty." She turned a page. "The only thing a Templar cares about."

"Bitterness does you no credit," he said. Then: "I consider you a friend." He hadn't intended to say so, but as soon as it was out he knew it was true.

"Templars cannot be friends with mages," she said. He recognized his own words from years ago, when they'd only just met.

"I consider you a friend," he repeated, earnestly.

She put the book down and looked at him directly for the first time. "I told you how I felt. You rejected me out of hand, rolled me down a flight of stairs, and arrested me. But what's a little humiliation among friends?"

Her tone, and the way she said, 'friends,' grated on him. "Serah Hawke, I appreciate beautiful mages believe they can bat their eyelashes at a Templar and get whatever they want. Now that we've established that won't work, perhaps we can move on."

She looked at him. It was a knowing look. He didn't like it.

"You appreciate beautiful mages, Knight-Captain?" She slowly, deliberately, batted her eyelashes at him. It was actually rather fetching, which made it all the more irritating.

He held up a hand. "Enough. I'm not here for your amusement."

"If you amused me, this conversation might actually be worthwhile," she said, and she lifted her book. "Consider your career, Knight-Captain. I understand fraternization is frowned upon."

"Serah Hawke, you can say whatever you like to me, it changes nothing. I am here for you, whether you believe it or not. You are my friend. I will not leave you."

"No?" she asked, her eyes still fastened on the page. Her confidence was undercut by something, some tiny sliver of uncertainty.

"No," he said, firmly.

* * *

It would have been easiest to leave her to her anger, but he didn't want to do that. Partly because he couldn't abandon her, alone, in a place she considered a prison, and partly because he was selfish and he didn't want to be without her. Seeing her angry was better than not seeing her at all.

He began to seek her out regularly at the library, greeting her from a safe distance. Sometimes she greeted him in turn, sometimes not. When they spoke, the shadow of her arrest hung over them, but he sensed she was warming. With each conversation her glance became a little less cold, her tone a little less aloof.

When he sensed there had been enough of a thaw he pulled up a chair.

She ignored him at first, but he was content to wait and watch. She was diligent and quick-witted and studious, a hard worker, a mean fighter. She would have made an excellent Templar under different circumstances, but he understood that being a mage, and all that came with it, had made her the woman she was. When he became enamored with Serah Amell, he'd wished fervently she could be different. When he became friends with Serah Hawke, he'd wished the world could be different. He did not want Hawke to change. He only wanted the world to change.

"Can I help you?" she asked finally, not lifting her eyes from the book.

"What would you have done if I'd yielded?" he asked, making the question vague in case their conversation was overheard. He knew this line of discussion was a bad idea but he couldn't help himself.

"I think that much is obvious, Knight-Captain," she murmured. She could be maddening when she tried.

"After that," he said, not taking the bait. "What next?"

"I hadn't planned that far ahead," she said. She seemed uncomfortable with the admission. "My mother always criticized me for being too impulsive. I guess she was right." Her look softened at the mention of Lady Amell.

"You miss her," he offered.

"I miss a lot of things," Hawke said. She lifted the book up, holding it between them to block his view. The usual signal the conversation was finished.

He reached over, resting a gloved finger against the top of the book's spine, and pushed it down until he could see her eyes.

"Serah Hawke, I mean you no ill."

"So naturally, you locked me in prison. That makes perfect sense."

"I wanted to protect you. You must understand that."

"It's like saying you protect your enemies by putting them in jail. I don't need your protection, Knight-Captain. I was doing fine before you decided I would make a nice addition to your trophy case."

"You're not a trophy," he said, suddenly angry. "And you've not been treated as such. You're safe, you have privacy and comfort, you have the company of your peers. This is not a prison, Marian. Ask your friend the Guard Captain what real prison conditions are like; I'm sure she'll gladly tell you."

"So now you're the one who has the right to be upset?" she asked.

"I would have never brought you here if I thought you would be mistreated or hurt in any way. Never."

"Wrong. You do whatever the Knight-Commander says," she countered. "Whatever you're told. That's your duty as a Templar, isn't it?"

"I do what the Maker has instilled in me to be right," he said. "That is my duty, and I do not take it lightly. I do not report an apostate that I believe is, in good faith, helping the less fortunate, because that is wrong. I do not allow a bounty to be placed on a mage who disenfranchised and living in poverty, who I believe is harming no one, because that is wrong. I do not take advantage of a mage who I believe is under duress, because that is wrong. My duty is imparted to me by a far higher power than the Knight-Commander, Serah Hawke."

He realized he was standing, looming over her, the specter of his old anger rising up. He didn't want to be like that. He took a breath, willing calm. She was looking at him intently, assessing with cool blue eyes. "I'm glad to hear that, Knight-Captain," she said quietly.

"It has nothing to do with your opinion," he said, still sharp, still defensive.

"I never meant to insult you."

He wanted to say he didn't care if she insulted him or not, but that wasn't true. He did care. Her opinion of him did matter. It was galling.

When he didn't respond, she said, "I mean that. It's difficult for a person like me to be in a place like this, whatever the circumstances."

This blunted his anger a bit. "I'm willing to cede that this is a lesser degree of freedom than you are accustomed to," he said. "I wish this hadn't happened." There was something about the arrest order that had been nagging at the back of his mind. Hawke was an apostate, but she wasn't stupid about it. There had been rumors, of course, and he'd chosen to look the other way on a few occasions, but she'd never been arrested because of lack of evidence and her family's influence. What had changed?

The answer came to him immediately: Hawke's mother. Had Lady Leandra Amell's death been enough to erode the protections preventing Hawke's arrest? Certainly, Hawke had gained enemies while climbing the social ladder.

"Thank you, Knight-Captain." Hawke's voice brought him back.

"You are welcome, Serah Hawke," he said, unsure what he was being thanked for.


	3. Chapter 3

First Enchanter Orsino was livid. "Do you really expect me to believe you haven't had my quarters searched, Knight-Captain?" he asked. The First Enchanter's apartment appeared tidy and undisturbed, but Orsino was adamant that someone had gone through his belongings.

Cullen shook his head. "There's been no search, First Enchanter."

"Someone has been here," Orsino insisted. "Who would dare but a Templar?"

"If you have proof, I will report it to the Knight-Commander. You haven't explained why you're suspicious and you've confirmed that nothing is missing. I can tell you unequivocally that I…" Cullen suddenly noticed the blue eyes that peered out from shadows of the curtains along the far wall. He kept a straight face. "…Have no knowledge of any search." Hawke abandoned her hiding place, moving quickly and quietly against the wall, trying to leave while Orsino's back was to her.

"I find that hard to believe, Knight-Captain," Orsino said, turning. "You obviously don't take my complaint seriously."

"First Enchanter," Cullen said, drawing him back before he could glimpse her slipping out the door. "You're right. This is important. I will do as you ask, and speak to the Knight-Commander."

"You don't strike me as a man who changes his mind easily," Orsino said, his tone cool.

"Your privacy is important. It must be respected."

Orsino considered. "Very well. If you take my complaint seriously, and investigate it, I can ask no more."

When Cullen disentangled himself from the First Enchanter, he went looking for Hawke. He knew she was a calculated risk-taker, it was actually one of the many things he admired about her, but her recklessness in this particular instance nettled him.

He didn't have to look long. He found her alone in the training yard practicing swordplay on a target dummy. She was improving, but her movements were still too emotional. A swordsman's stance was a reflection of the state of mind; Hawke's form had a great deal of anger in it.

"What are you doing?" he asked sharply, when he reached her. The cloudy sky cast a pall over the yard, shading them both, but it was still hot and she was sweating.

"Practicing Chantry-approved violence," she said, her attention focused on the target.

"You have no business being in his room," he told her. "I don't know how you got in there, but it can't happen again."

She thrust, then parried. "What does it matter?"

"It matters because it's a violation of his privacy."

"You really care that much about the First Enchanter's privacy?"

"I care about his privacy as much as I care about yours. If I found someone trespassing in your quarters—" He cut himself off. He didn't want to talk about her room, and what he'd do if he found someone else in it. "It's important that we all maintain a certain level of trust. If the First Enchanter believes we are conducting unauthorized searches of his apartment I have a problem. I hope you appreciate the position you've put me in."

"You could have turned me in. That would have solved your problem." She was angry, but not at him.

"Obviously," he said curtly. "And then you would have made an enemy of the most powerful mage in the Circle. That's an excellent strategy."

She turned to face him, wiping sweat from her brow. "Fine. I'll be more careful next time," she said.

"Next time?" he asked, incredulous. "_Next time_? Marian, there can be no—" He stopped because she smiled at him. He hadn't seen that smile in some time. He'd missed it. "You're teasing me," he said, relief mingling with his irritation.

"I'm teasing," she confirmed.

"Are you pleased with yourself?" he asked.

"Aren't I always?"

It was hard to stay annoyed with her when she was smiling at him like that, especially when she hadn't smiled for so long. He understood that she was deflecting his questions and steering him away from the subject at hand, but he did not mind.

Without thinking, he brushed a lock of hair from her face. It was an innocent gesture, but the unspoken intimacy of it heightened his awareness of her closeness. This had never been an issue before. Outside the Gallows they'd been friendly, even companionable, and he'd been comfortable with it. But within these walls he was always so _aware_ of her, of how close she was. He was always guarding himself. He began to step back, to give her space, and she touched his arm.

When her eyes met his, they were searching. "When you came to the manor, I wanted to ask you something." She hesistated. "Is it possible?" She licked her lips; it was a nervous gesture.

He thought of the warmth of her mouth, the way her hair smelled, and told her the truth. "It's problematic," he said. "I have authority over you. You're captive with no means of escape. If you wanted to reject me, if you wanted to say no, would you feel free to do so?"

She was watching him closely. "You're not saying you don't want this. You're not saying you took some kind of crazy vow that makes this impossible."

He elected to ignore the crazy vow part. "What is right supersedes what I want. Being a mage in the Circle qualifies as duress. To exploit that is an abuse of authority."

"Let me decide if I'm under duress," she said dryly. "And while you're at it, stop trying to protect me. Trust me to take care of myself."

"I do trust you."

"Prove it," she said, sheathing her sword. He wanted to argue, but found he couldn't. Hadn't he, at every step, judged what would be best for her, regardless of her desires? Wasn't he here now questioning her motives?

"Serah Hawke," Orsino called, as he approached from the gate. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

Both turned to look at him and Cullen took a step back, widening the distance between them.

"Not at all. I was hoping to speak with you, First Enchanter," Hawke said.

"Then it is fortuitous that I saw you here with the Knight-Captain," Orsino said. Cullen assessed him, seeking some ulterior meaning, but found none. "If I may?"

"Excuse me," Hawke murmured, pushing past him. As they left, Orsino swept an arm across her shoulders. It was intended to be a paternal gesture, but what Cullen noticed, and Orsino did not, was that her hand clenched at her side.


	4. Chapter 4

The cacophony of the recruits' practice swords and shields crashing together was broken by the drill master's booming voice.

"Line up!" Ser Jendal barked.

The recruits broke out of sparring pairs and formed a line as Cullen crossed the yard for troop inspection. In the past, the hot afternoons had been devoted to meditation and spiritual study, but within the past few years the training curriculum had been refocused, placing more emphasis on swordplay and fitness. The recruits were often training in the yards well into the afternoon and spent far less time in the library and lecture halls. Cullen believed meditation and mental focus formed the core of Templar training, but Meredith was insistent that the physical requirements of the job take precedence. "How will they slay an abomination they cannot catch?" she'd asked, annoyed.

"Tough bunch, this lot," Jendal told him as they walked down the line. "Very good fighters. Very good."

"And their arcane education?"

"Not good, Ser," Jendal admitted. "They lack focus."

Cullen studied the group and selected the one that seemed the most skilled. "You fight well with a blade," he told recruit Stamos.

"Thank you, Ser," she said.

"What are the demon hierarchies?"

"Rage, pride, and sloth, Knight-Captain," she said.

"And the fourth?"

She hesitated. "Greed, Ser?"

"Desire. Do you know how to defend yourself against one?"

"Stab it, Ser," she said. Someone in the line giggled.

He searched her expression for insubordination, but found none. "Do you know what a desire demon does?"

Her face reddened. "I… can only assume, Ser." She saw this was not the answer he wanted, and added, "I was told the demon would become beautiful and try to… um, kiss you. And that you must stab it in the heart, because that is where desire comes from."

In days past, Cullen would have made a harsh example of her lack of knowledge and penalized the entire unit. Today, he recognized a lack of knowledge represented a deficiency within the Order and the training program, not the individual recruit. "That's enough," he told Jendal.

"Back to drills, all of you," Jendal said, and the recruits answered with a chorus of, "Yes, Ser!" before resuming their swordplay. When they settled back into their exercises, Jendal and Cullen walked the yard. "Permission to speak freely, Ser?" Jendal asked.

"You may," Cullen said. Some of the Templars stationed in Kirkwall prior to Cullen's arrival resented his rapid promotion and his Ferelden roots and sought to undermine him. Jendal was not such a person. He was a diligent teacher and brutally honest. Cullen had grown to appreciate his candor and his advice.

"We used to recruit all kinds: strong, smart, spiritual. We shaped them all into worthy Templars and the ranks had variety. Now we primarily recruit the ones who are strongest with a sword. They work hard, and they're good fighters, but they don't always master the other skills. Some aren't literate; most have trouble with the old texts. Show them a book and their eyes glaze over. They drink lyrium like water and they think they can solve every problem with a sword."

"What do you recommend?" Cullen asked. He had already tried, and failed, to have the recruitment requirements modified.

"Thrask suggested we have targeted lectures in the afternoons. Drill some practical knowledge into their skulls. We'll start with basic demonology. Talk about the dangers, discuss tactics."

Cullen saw where this was going. "You'd like my help?" he asked.

"Not to put too fine a point on it, Ser, but I aim to scare the shit out of them. They need to understand there are things out there far bigger than their blades."

When it was phrased like that, Cullen could hardly say no.

* * *

"There are four classifications of demon," Cullen said. "Rage, sloth, desire, and pride. Today, we discuss desire." The yard was full of recruits with varying degrees of skill. A handful of mages were gathered at the gate to listen, including Hawke.

Cullen walked among them, hands clasped behind his back. "Some assume desire demons overwhelm their victims with pleasure." He did not miss the glances and whispers that shot back and forth among them. Recruits seldom appreciated what 'desire' meant when applied to demons. He said, "I was tortured by a desire demon for weeks and was nearly driven mad. I can assure you there was nothing pleasurable about the experience."

With that, he had their attention. He had never been so frank about his history. Most of the recruits had probably heard rumors of his ordeal at Kinloch Hold and were naturally curious. "Confronting a desire demon is primarily a battle of willx, as they evade physical confrontation whenever possible," he continued, pacing. "They will look into your soul and craft a weapon of the thing you long for, but cannot have—love, family, friends, the departed, power, possessions. They will attempt to bargain. Whatever they offer is a lie. If you lower your guard, they will destroy you. To be prepared for an encounter, you must know yourself. You must understand your desires, whether they are good or ill, and be at peace with what you cannot have. This is why your mental training is so important."

The younger recruits exchanged uncertain glances. This was a common reaction, especially now, when meditative skills had been deemphasized. They did not appreciate the importance of meditation and focus beyond the Chantry walls. He gestured towards the recruit nearest him. "Paxton, what have you desired most since coming to the Gallows?"

The recruit hesitated.

"Perhaps you miss your family or a close friend," Cullen suggested.

Paxton nodded, somewhat emboldened, and said, "My mother, Ser. She passed on."

"A desire demon would offer to return your mother to you. Counter that temptation by embracing the family you have through the Chantry and the Order. Your mother waits for you by the Maker's side, and that is the way to see her again—not through the empty promises of a demon. This is an evident truth, but in the face of temptation, confusion, and pain, the path is not always so clear."

He allowed them to process this. "Stamos," he said, calling on the recruit he had questioned in the yard the day before. "What do you desire?"

She reddened and shook her head, staring down at her hands.

"Fraternization," the recruit next to her said, nudging her gently. She elbowed him back, her face still burning. Some of the recruits nearby giggled.

"Love can be the most difficult temptation to resist," Cullen said, not unkindly. "The strongest Templars have buckled under the promise of it. But a demon cannot give what is not yours to have, it does not possess that power. Counter that temptation with the knowledge that you will always have the love and devotion of the Grand Cleric and your Commander."

Stamos seemed uncertain. "But Ser, the Knight-Commander…"

"You doubt she loves you?" he asked.

"Forgive me, Ser," Stamos said, checking to make sure Meredith wasn't present. "She is harsh."

"She is strict because she cares. You are her Templars. Never forget that."

Cullen turned to the next recruit, but before he could ask the question, it was turned to him instead. "What is your desire, Knight-Captain?" Athos asked.

Reflexively, he looked at Hawke, but he averted his eyes almost as quickly and scanned those gathered in the yard. "Advancement," he said.

"Was your ambition used against you at the Circle Tower in Ferelden?" asked Athos, apparently feeling brave. The others waited expectantly.

There was a time when he would have been unable to think about, let alone talk about, his past experiences, but with the help of Knight-Commander Greagoir and the Grand Cleric he had overcome a great deal. The tremors, chills, and headaches had nearly stopped. He made a snap decision. Sharing his experience might help prepare them. It could become something beneficial.

"The conditions were not ideal," he said. "I was imprisoned, denied food or water, and forced to watch my fellows succumb, one by one. A desire demon came to me in the guise of…" He saw her slinking towards him in the darkness, an inhuman likeness of Solana, grotesquely beautiful, beckoning. "…A young lady. She offered me things that I knew were not mine to have. She attacked wherever I was weakest, physically or mentally. When I resisted, she insulted my manhood and my character and blasphemed the Maker." He remembered how she mocked him with Solana's face and body, summoning horrible urges, whispering terrible temptations. He'd feared, deep down, that he secretly desired what she offered. Weren't a demon's taunts always rooted in some truth? Wasn't that why the encounter had haunted him for so long after?

"I resisted to the best of my ability," he said, "but she devastated my mind." He felt a trickle of sweat on his brow, in spite of the light breeze, and wiped it away. "If the Wardens had not arrived when they did, I would have succumbed."

He cleared his throat; he was finding it slightly difficult to breathe. "Reciting the Chant of Light is helpful," he said. "It allows one to focus the mind, to avoid the penetration of demonic influence. If one cannot escape, one must resist. If one cannot resist, one must embrace death."

It was absolutely still in the yard. When he stepped aside, letting Thrask take over the remainder of the lecture, he noticed Hawke was not with the cluster of mages at the gate anymore.

* * *

It was by chance that he found Hawke in the restricted section of the library. He'd received a complaint from the Guard Captain about dangerous tomes being smuggled out of the Gallows. The charge was serious enough to warrant investigation, but he wanted to check the catalogue himself before he broached the subject with the Knight-Commander.

He was not expecting to find her in a dark corner in the farthest aisle. She was reading an open book balanced along the shelf, so completely absorbed she was unaware of his presence. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and he wondered how she could make such a simple gesture so captivating.

"This section of the library is restricted," he said, wondering how long she'd been here. Only the First Enchanter and a handful of senior Enchanters were allowed access to these books, and even then, it was only to catalogue them.

She immediately slid the volume back onto the shelf. "I didn't realize," she said, facing him.

He wasn't sure which book she'd been looking at. The spines were marked in faded Tevene and translation wasn't his strength. "Perhaps you can make a recommendation?"

"I came here for privacy, not the selection." Her eyes met his. She smelled like woman, sandalwood, and something else. Something warm. He couldn't decide if she was deliberately trying to distract him or if it were purely incidental.

"Serah Hawke, what are you planning?" he asked, undeterred.

"What do you mean?"

"Where should we start? The part where you were trespassing in the First Enchanter's quarters or the part where you were researching restricted materials?"

She didn't answer.

"Do you take me for a fool?" he asked finally.

"No," she said. "It's not like that."

"Why do you insist on lying to me?" he demanded.

"Why do you insist on getting involved? I told you, you're not responsible for me."

Maker help her, she _was _his responsibility. They all were. Didn't she understand that? "I'm concerned about you," he said.

"I'm in the Gallows, where I belong and, according to you, where I'm safe and protected. What could you possibly be concerned about?"

"What do you hope to gain by being so reckless? Why must you-Serah Hawke?"

Her expression, her body language, her everything had changed. "Oh, Cullen," she said, her voice tight. She crossed her arms.

"I didn't mean to upset you."

"Why won't you listen to me?"

Her reaction unsettled him. He thought back to their earlier conversations, sifting through everything she'd asked of him. _Trust me to take care of myself. _

He did trust her, he decided. But he was immediately forced to amend that thought. He'd trusted her independence _outside_ the Gallows. Within had been another matter. He justified her arrest by saying she would be safe in the Gallows, yet he was concerned for her safety. He said he valued her free will, yet he insisted on trying to control her. He analyzed the contradictions.

He'd spent so much time in self-contemplation, forcing himself to recognize and address his innermost workings, that once his mind was pointed in the right direction he made the next few steps in rapid succession. He wanted to keep her safe. He wanted to keep her. He wanted to keep her with him. He wanted to keep her all to himself. He wanted her.

And here they were.

The realization of his complicity did not shock him, once he followed the logical path. A part of him, somewhere deep inside, wanted to possess her, and the arrest order provided the means to do so. She was trapped in his prison, where she needed and relied on him—and only him. He had no competition. She belonged to him. The demon had not been so terribly far from the truth after all.

"Do you understand?" she was asking.

In spite of everything, he still had an urge to pull her to his chest, to protect her, to safeguard her, to never let her go, to keep her. He did none of these things. He cleared his mind. He made a decision. Wordlessly, he extended his hand. She accepted, and he lifted her hand to his lips, lightly brushing her knuckles.

"No more questions?" she asked, sounding as though she didn't quite believe it.

"No more questions," he said, and released her.


	5. Chapter 5

Cullen was deep in the minutiae of inventory management when Stamos arrived at his office. "Ser," she said, stopping at the door and saluting. "I've been ordered to attend the Harrowing with you this morning."

"What Harrowing?" Cullen asked, frowning at a discrepancy on the supplies report.

"Marian Hawke's, Ser."

There must have been something in his expression, because when he looked up she swallowed visibly. "Marian?" he asked. He was caught off-guard. He'd been under the impression that Hawke was too high-profile to be put through the Harrowing.

"Yes, Ser."

He brushed the report aside, rising. "When was this decided?"

"I was given order a moment ago, Ser."

She followed him through the crowded lower halls, staying at his elbow. The crowd parted for them, mages receding quietly to either side while Templars and recruits saluted or uttered the occasional, "Ser."

When they reached the stairs, he said, "Top floor," and they began to climb. The Harrowing chamber was located on the topmost level as a safety precaution. Any escaped abomination would have to traverse six levels of Templars and mages to reach the ground entrance. To date, nothing had ever escaped.

He normally instructed the recruit in the Harrowing chamber, but he didn't want to have that conversation in front of Hawke. He stopped Stamos on the third flight of stairs, between floors, stepping down slightly so they were level. It was cramped in the stairwell, and torchlight sent shadows across Stamos' face.

"Do you understand what's expected of you?" he asked.

"When she turns, we must slay her."

Cullen felt a clawing in his gut. He said, "If. If she turns."

"She's powerful though, isn't she?" Stamos asked, licking her lips nervously. "I heard she was. She's not like an apprentice. Does that mean… if she becomes… she'll be more dangerous?"

"I will be the designated slayer," Cullen told her, not realizing, until he said it, that he'd made that decision. He considered the implications, briefly, and shuttered them. "You will be support."

"Yes, Ser," Stamos said, still uncertain.

When they entered the chamber, Hawke and Orsino were standing near the lyrium pedestal. Stamos joined the three Templars loitering nearby.

"Knight-Captain," Orsino said, when he approached.

Hawke was staring into the mirror-like surface of the lyrium pedestal. "What should I expect?" she asked. It was almost as if she were asking her reflection.

"I cannot tell you," Orsino said.

"Demons, a pride demon," Cullen said, surprising the others. It was a significant breach of protocol. Mages entering the Harrowing were not supposed to know the nature of the trial.

Hawke paled. "You match unarmed apprentices against demons? This is your _test_?"

Orsino and Cullen exchanged a glance. Both were opposed to the practice of sending mages completely unequipped—both in weaponry and experience—into the Fade to confront demons. It was one of the few things they agreed on.

"Fine, demons," she muttered, taking a breath. "Give me a moment."

"You've faced this," Cullen said. If even half the stories were true (allowing for the usual creative embellishments) she'd bested her share of demons.

"Never alone," Hawke said. Already, she was breaking into a sweat.

He understood the reaction. The more demons one faced, the more one respected them, and the more fearful one became. Her fear betrayed her experience. "You're not alone," he said.

Hawke looked him in the eye. "Aren't I?" she asked, her voice rough. He wanted to say more, but could not.

"Serah Hawke," Orsino said. "It is time."

"I'll be waiting for you," Cullen said.

This bolstered her; without another word, Hawke plunged her hand into the lyrium pool. The silvery liquid coated her skin, glowing. She pulled back, watching as the glow spread up her arm and was absorbed into her body. Her knees buckled and Cullen caught her. He lowered her to the floor. Her eyes were wide and empty. She was in the Fade, now.

They waited.

After some time, she began to mouth the Chant, and Cullen's heart clenched. Orsino noticed and leaned closer, studying her carefully.

"What did you summon?" Cullen asked. The First Enchanter didn't answer. Hawke's fingers curled into her palms, her fingernails leaving half-moons in her skin, and the other Templars shifted uneasily, closing in around them. "Stand down," Cullen said, kneeling beside her. "I am the designated."

They obeyed, but their disquiet was evident. One said, "Ser, it's taking too long." Another began to pray softly under his breath. Stamos looked distinctly ill, her hand clenched at her hilt. They stood at alert, coiled, tensed, weapons drawn.

The minutes stretched, broken only when Hawke whispered the name, "Anders."

Cullen took her hand and her fingers tightened in his. He knew it was an involuntary muscle response; nevertheless, he held her hand. He knew the Maker did not answer prayers anymore; nevertheless, he prayed. He wasn't sure how much time passed, but all at once, she returned to them, blinking rapidly in the light.

There seemed to be a collective release from the Templars. Stamos let out a long breath and wiped away the sweat that had beaded on her brow. The Templars slid their swords back into their hilts.

"Congratulations, Serah Hawke," Orsino said, relieved.

She startled at the sound of his voice, her grip tightening in Cullen's hand. Cullen said, "I'm here." She relaxed. "Rest," he said. She drifted to sleep.

* * *

Meredith did not look up when Cullen entered her office; her pen deftly flicked across paper, oddly mirroring her elegance with a blade. She trained alone now and rarely came to the Harrowings or the troop inspections, so he usually only saw her here, mired in paperwork.

"Serah Hawke passed her Harrowing," he said.

"That is good to hear," Meredith said, turning a page. "If she had failed, people would have been displeased."

"Was it necessary?" he asked, keeping his voice as even as possible.

"If all mages under our protection are treated equally, then all must be subject to the Harrowing. When the First Enchanter brought the oversight to my attention I had little choice," Meredith said. "Close the door."

He obeyed and took one of the chairs across from her desk, processing this bit of information and wondering what it meant.

"There has been talk of Marian Hawke's arrest," Meredith said. "The Magistrates are questioning our right to hold her. What are your thoughts on the matter?"

"People will say the arrest was politically motivated."

"What do you say?"

"Arresting someone of her status with no formal charges leads to suspicion of our motives."

"She's a mage, isn't she?" Meredith asked. "Or have you forgotten?" It was a reminder that she knew he'd glossed over a few things in his reports.

"The Viscount only distinguishes between mages who are useful and mages who are not," he said. "I believe he has found Serah Hawk to be rather useful."

"You understand the animals in our little jungle," Meredith said, disapproving. "At least one of us does." She rolled one of the papers and melted a segment of wax. "The Order does not answer to the Viscount or the Magistrates. To do so would be to show weakness. The people, and the Qunari, must believe we are strong." She stamped the parchment with her seal. "Are you happy, Cullen?" she asked, surprising him with the abrupt change of subject. "You enjoy the challenges of your work? You find it engaging?"

"I do, Knight-Commander, yes." This was mostly true. Like her, he preferred clear-cut actions and goals to the murky waters of intrigue. But while he yearned for an opportunity to go out into the world, to change it, he appreciated the influence his current post provided.

"Good." She turned a page. "You seem distracted."

He could hardly deny it. "I have a lot on my mind."

"I understand why you did it," she said, dashing her name across the next page. He watched as the red ink glided along the parchment in practiced curves. Meredith signed everything in red. "They need to understand the reality we face. We want them to be brave, but the Maker knows they must also be afraid." She'd heard about his lecture on demons, then. She'd never told him not to talk about his past, but she had strongly urged discretion. "I once wondered if I should tell them about Amelia, but decided I could not. I am their Commander. I must be strong in all things, larger than life, even inhuman, if necessary. But you… you can be human, Cullen. I daresay you must be."

"I hope so, Knight-Commander," he said.

She finished signing and handed the paperwork to him. It contained recommendations to the Viscount, mostly about port security. He nodded as he read, agreeing with the suggestions she'd outlined.

"They will not want to give us the authority to search all incoming cargo," he said. Any request that interfered with the import of luxury items would be summarily slapped down by the Magistrates. He handed the papers back.

"I know it," she replied, stretching her writing hand and rotating the wrist. "Perhaps they will be more receptive if it comes from you." It was no secret she was growing increasingly weary of Kirkwall's politicians. She sealed the papers and handed the packet to him. "Give the animals my regards," she said, with a ghost of a smile.

"I will, Knight-Commander," he said.

* * *

He intended to check on Hawke before he went to the Viscount's office, but this time, Hawke came to him, knocking on his office door as he prepared to leave.

"You're about," he said, pleased. She was slightly pale, but otherwise seemed fine. Some mages required days to fully recover.

She shut the door and, as an afterthought, bolted the latch. "I have to tell you something," she said, turning to face him. "You're not going to like it."

"I'll be the judge of that," he said, but her look made him uneasy.

"You trusted me. I know that wasn't easy, considering our situation. And I… haven't been completely honest with you. I want to tell you the truth, while I have the chance." She took a breath. "I asked the Seneschal to request my arrest."

He placed the packet on the desk, letting her words sink in. He'd known something wasn't right about the arrest order, but this explanation made no sense. When he'd come to arrest her, she'd resisted. He'd never seen her so angry.

"I told Bran I wanted to search for evidence that the Knight-Commander was abusing her authority," she continued. She saw him tense and said, "Wait, let me finish."

"Continue," he said, aware of how hard his voice had become.

"In turn, Bran told the Knight-Commander that the Viscount wanted to arrange my arrest so I could search for evidence of blood magic amongst the Senior Enchanters. I would confide in no one, and if caught I would not implicate her in any way. Those were the terms she agreed to."

Lies within lies, and at the center, Hawke. He did not like the emerging pattern. "Why are you really here?" he asked.

"I found dangerous relics in Kirkwall and I believe they came from the Gallows. I needed to learn who smuggling them out."

"This is the Guard-Captain's scheme, then?"

"No. She's aware of the problem, but she doesn't know that's why I'm here."

While he was disturbed by the suggestion that the Knight-Commander was keeping information from him, it wasn't the part that bothered him the most. Hawke had been extremely upset when he arrested her. Her reaction made no sense if she intended to go to the Gallows willingly. Why hadn't she told him what she was doing?

She seemed to read his thoughts. "I had to know," she said, in a small voice. "I didn't plan it, but when the time came, I… I had to see what you would do."

He stared at her, hardly believing what she was saying. She stepped back, as if physically evading his gaze, and bumped into the door. "You were testing me," he said in a low voice. Anger welled up in him, not only because he had been tested, but because he had failed.

"You're a Templar," she said.

"And you're a mage," he said.

"A mage would do anything to keep from being taken to the Circle."

"I know what I said. You threw yourself at me when I tried to arrest you. What the Void was I supposed to think?"

"You were supposed to…" She faltered.

"I couldn't and you know why," he said. "I wanted you more than I've ever wanted anything, I would have gone on my hands and knees for you, and you couched it in a bribe, an insult. You intimated you loved me and then you dangled it in my face like a sodding prize." She flinched, but he didn't relent. "I never asked you to compromise yourself for my love, not once."

"You acted like it meant nothing to you!" she said, her temper flaring. "I searched for a sign, believe me! I asked three times and you denied me three times. Then you turned it against me. You tried to say if I really loved you, I'd come quietly to your prison, I'd be a good little mage and submit—" Her voice broke. She turned away and tried to compose herself. Her hands were shaking.

"You lied to me," he said.

"You humiliated me." She gritted the words out, as though the admission itself was another blow.

"You lied to me," he said evenly, punctuating each word.

"Not about how I feel. Never about how I feel."

For a time, neither spoke, and an uncomfortable silence rushed to fill the void. She stared down at her hands and the little half-moons in her palms. He went to the window, looking out, trying and failing to clear his mind, thankful for the privacy the Gallows' thick stone walls afforded them.

"I don't want to leave things unresolved between us," she said, finally. When he didn't answer, she said, "Fair enough. I understand," and turned and reached for the latch.

He crossed the room. When she pulled the bolt, he caught her hand. She tensed, surprised, as he guided the bolt back into place. She looked up at him, questioning.

"Cullen," she began, and he slid his hand slowly, deliberately up her arm. He'd never touched her like this before, never so purposefully and intimately. He wanted to memorize her lines. Her breath quickened when his gloved hand rolled over her bare shoulder and traced her collarbone.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"You. I want to be honest with you. I don't want any secrets between us."

He ran his hand along the beautiful curve of her neck, just as he'd done so many times in his mind.

"What do you want?" she whispered. She licked her lips, and it was this simple, unconscious gesture that eroded what remained of his sense of self-preservation.

He kissed her forcefully, shoving her against the door, and heard her breath catch. He tasted her, taking in the feel and smell of her as she arched her body against him. She ran her fingers through his hair, making a soft sound, a wanting sound. He kissed her neck, goaded by how responsive she was to his touch, by all the wonderful noises she made. Maker, she was going to be his undoing.

"Please—" she managed, and he crushed his mouth to hers, transmuting the word into a sigh as she twined her arms around his neck. He deepened the kiss. She accepted, parting her lips with a moan, setting him aflame, igniting a want that had lain dormant for years.

Someone knocked on the door. The sound was loud, reverberating through their embrace, and they froze.

They waited, but a second knock never came. The shadow under the door receded and the only sound he could hear was Hawke's breathing. She was warm against him, and more enticing with each breath, but there had been enough of a break in the moment to put his reason back in control. They couldn't be caught like this.

Her mouth found his again. The kiss was chaste and controlled—a parting kiss.

"Can we do this?" she asked.

In spite of everything he'd ever told himself to the contrary, he said, "Yes."

She gently disentangled herself from his embrace, lifted the latch, and slipped out the door. When she was gone, the warmth of her still somehow lingered.


	6. Chapter 6

Marian wasn't sure what to expect when a recruit approached her in the library and asked her to report to the Knight-Commander. Navigating between the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter had been trickier than she'd expected, and she wondered if Orsino had made a move. But when she arrived at the office and found Cullen and Meredith waiting, the latter drumming her fingers impatiently on the desk, she knew it must be something outside the Circle. She gave Cullen a nod—courteous, formal, distant—and he returned it.

"Serah Hawke," Meredith said. "The Viscount has requested your presence. He has refused to disclose the reason, saying it is a personal matter. Do you have a theory?"

She considered it and said, "Perhaps the Qunari."

"Hm," Meredith said, still drumming. "Yes, I thought so as well. The heathens permeate everything now. Why does he consider that personal?"

"I couldn't say, Knight-Commander."

"Very discrete of you."

"I try, Knight-Commander."

Meredith looked her over. "One can never be too discrete," she said, finally. "I've authorized access to Hightown and the Keep, provided you are escorted and you return by curfew." Before Marian could respond, Meredith added, "The Knight-Captain will go with you."

She wasn't sure if this was a test. She asked, "Is that really necessary?"

"It's final," Meredith said. Marian didn't know the older woman well, but she knew hardened resolve when she saw it. She nodded and accepted the letter offered.

In spite of what "authorization" implied, one did not easily leave the Gallows by the official channels. Authorized leave revolved around a highly bureaucratic process clearly intended to discourage all but the most determined, which was why most mages chose to sneak out and deal with the consequences.

Cullen went with her to the administration office, where the elderly templar on duty, Ser Pryor, scrutinized her intently before asking, "What is your destination, mage? Orlais? Antiva?"

"The Keep," Marian said, handing him the letter.

"Name?"

"Marian Hawke."

He looked to Cullen, who nodded in confirmation. He made a note in the ledger. "Be back by curfew, mind your manners. If we send Ser Cullen here to fetch you, you won't like it."

"I'll be accompanying her, Ser Pryor," Cullen said patiently.

"That so? Hm. Ah, so it says." Pryor blinked, then returned to his ledger. "The Knight-Commander approved this?" he asked, skeptically.

"Everything is in order, Ser Pryor," Cullen said, again patient.

"Ah, yes. I see it here. Off you go, then. Be back by curfew, and mind your manners."

"Thank you," Marian said, moving past before he could ask anything further. "Do you fetch wayward mages often?" she asked Cullen, when they were out of hearing.

"No," Cullen said, sighing. "He still thinks I'm a corporal."

Outside, the air in the courtyard seemed fresher than usual. When they boarded the ferry, Cullen helped her up, his hand lingering on hers after she'd stepped onto the deck. She hadn't been this close to him since their moment in his office. She wasn't nervous, exactly, but she felt a little flutter when he was near. Until now, kissing boys behind sheds in Lothering (and the occasional apostate in the occasional alley in Kirkwall) and a few enthusiastic couplings in the fields (and in the occasional tavern, not to be named) had been the extent of her sexual experience. She'd expected him to be similarly inexperienced, but the practiced way he'd deepened their kiss suggested otherwise.

The boat pulled away from the dock, chugging slowly to the opposite shore, and she turned to face the wind. "How long has he been like that?" she asked, thinking back to the old templar. His senility had no bearing on his job. She'd learned, trying to sneak past him more than once, that she could not talk her way around whatever was written in the ledger. For all his forgetfulness, he was consistent with paperwork and knew to trust his own handwriting.

"Pardon?" Cullen asked, leaning in.

"Ser Pryor," she said.

"Oh," Cullen said. "That's lyrium poisoning. He had the sickness before I arrived."

Her throat felt tight. She swallowed. "How often does that happen?"

"They say it happens to all templars, eventually."

"How long does it take?"

"It depends on how the lyrium is rationed," he said. The question she was actually asking, _How long until it happens to you?_ went unanswered. He seemed distracted, which was unlike him. She contented herself with leaning against the edge of the boat and enjoying the breeze. When they reached the docks, her hair was a windswept halo. She managed to smooth down most of it, and Cullen reached over to tuck a stray lock behind her ear, almost absently.

If the air smelled fresher in the courtyards, it was absolutely pristine at the docks, fish and all. It was a peculiar combination of sewage and empty oyster shells, which were piled high and baked in the sun, but after nearly two months in the Circle the smell of free air was delightful, no matter what odors mingled there. She'd known going to the Circle wouldn't be easy, but she hadn't appreciated how quickly she would chafe under the Order's restrictions.

"Marian, may I show you something?" Cullen asked.

He led her down winding lanes she hadn't travelled before. Once she'd gotten back the estate in Hightown she spent most of her time dealing with magistrates and nobles and less of it exploring the area. She was familiar with the crooked paths of Lowtown and Darktown, but much of Hightown was still a mystery.

At first, she thought her senses deceived her—the unmistakable aroma of a spiced lamb, here? But this was followed by the realization that he was taking her to a Ferelden bakery tucked away behind several clothiers.

"I didn't know this was here!" she said.

"I was hoping it would surprise you," he said, pleased by her reaction.

The small portico was shaded and offered a degree of privacy. She took wine, a luxury in the Gallows, but he did not. Her enthusiasm bubbled over and he was content to let her order for them both. After bringing a tray that looked as excellent as it smelled, the matronly waitress patted Cullen affectionately on the arm as she walked past, and Marian realized he came here often.

"As good as home?" he asked, as she was finishing a spicy tart that was so hot it nearly brought tears to her eyes.

"Better, actually," she said.

"The baker is from Denerim," Cullen said. "Their loss is Kirkwall's gain." Marian slowed her pace on the remaining food to a nibble. She wanted to prolong the meal. He was so relaxed and at ease here, and it was nice to just _be_ like this. She reached across the table, sliding her hand into his heavy gloved one, and he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.

"Have you ever been there?" she asked.

"When I was at Greenfell we would occasionally travel there for supplies."

"Greenfell?" she asked. His brow furrowed ever so slightly. "You don't have to tell me," she said.

"No, I… want to. I was sent there after Kinloch Hold. Most of the templars there have lyrium poisoning, but they take anyone unfit for duty. I stayed for several months. It's only a few hours from Denerim."

In spite of what he said, she intuited he wasn't ready to talk about Greenfell yet. She shifted the subject easily, giving him a sly look and saying, "Supplies aren't the only thing in Denerim."

He smiled, giving her hand a squeeze. "Yes, there are also, ah, young ladies there," he said, averting his eyes briefly. She loved these rare, fleeting glimpses of shyness. It came from his core, from a part of him so quintessentially _Cullen_ and untouched by the Order or magic or the world.

"Did you meet someone?" she prompted.

"I did. A soldier around my age. I had a horrible stutter, and she helped me with it, she had a cousin with the same problem. She was very kind to me."

"I don't think I've heard you stutter once."

"I manage it fairly well around there." He gestured with his free hand, vaguely, in the direction of the Gallows. "Do you know Denerim?"

"I went once, with my mother, for family business."

"Did you meet any young men there?" Now he was being sly.

She laughed. "No, but not for lack of trying! My mother figured out what we were up to and she was very vigilant. No young men for us."

"None at all?" he asked quietly, with the barest of smiles.

She blushed—usually she was the one teasing him—and felt childish because of it. "There was a boy in Lothering. He was… well. Sweet." She smiled affectionately at the memory, and said, "But the Blight—you understand."

He did. He was Ferelden.

When they rose to leave, he brought her hand to his lips.

"Marian, I want to woo you," he said, with a sincerity that made her heart swell.

"You already have," she said. She rose on tip-toe to give him a kiss, aiming for his cheek, thinking a direct kiss was too bold in public, but he caught her chin and kissed her full on the mouth. She tasted warmth and spice, and lingered for a moment, savoring him. Of all her mistakes, she thought, this one was worth it.


	7. Chapter 7

When Marian and Fenris moved away from Seamus' lifeless body, Mother Petrice's defenders rushed the stairs. A templar was among them and he broke away from the rest, making Marian his singular focus.

Marian willed herself to look past the emblem on his chest, but only so far. If she killed him, she would never escape the Circle—she would have to neutralize him instead. With Seamus dead, she could no longer count the Viscount's office amount her allies. Instead of her customary fire, she called on the ferocious chill that had once been her sister's domain. She reached out to the Fade, channeling power through her body in lieu of a staff.

_ "I was starting to think you enjoyed being in the Circle after all," Bran said dryly, as they crossed the entry hall leading to the Viscount's office. "You never visit. You never write."_

_ "I don't have anything for you yet," she told him._

_ "Perhaps you aren't looking hard enough. You made certain assurances."_

_ She was beginning to regret the finer points of their bargain. "I told you I had suspicions. I won't manufacture evidence for you. If I don't find anything—"_

_ "You'll need to get comfortable. It will take quite a bit of political capital to extricate you from the Circle. You promised me leverage against Meredith and I'll accept nothing less."_

Marian ensnared the templar in her wintery embrace, freezing his limbs and restricting his movement, even as his sword came down, his free hand focusing a cleanse directly at her chest. Beside her, Fenris crashed into two swordsmen approaching their flank, cleaving one with ferocity that sent an arc of blood across her neck and chest. She did not feel the warmth of it; she only felt the tendrils of the templar's cleanse snapping out at her, cutting quick to her heart.

_"Being captive is a complicated thing," Fenris said. "The boundaries are often clearer to those on the outside." He glanced away, obviously uncomfortable, and said, "I do not judge you. I understand, perhaps better than most. I am concerned for you." She wasn't surprised that he was the first to figure it out. He could be startlingly perceptive at times._

_ "Fenris," she said. "This is what I want."_

_ "I believe you, but I question the wisdom of it."_

_ She knew it wasn't easy for him to talk to her this directly and personally. She said, "Fortunately, no one has ever accused me of being wise."_

_ A ghost of a smile quirked his lips._

The cleanse was lashes raining down; her connection to the Fade was torn from her body like a loose thread being pulled from tightly-woven fabric. She pivoted as the templar's sword struck her shoulder and she gave one last tiny push.

Just one last, tiny push.

It was enough to throw the templar back, granting her a brief respite from his blade. A brief respite, as it turned out, was all that was required. Cullen charged past her, slamming into the man with his shield.

_She knew something was wrong the moment they entered the Chantry. Cullen sensed it too, and when they exchanged a glance he stepped into the shadows, taking a side hall. Marian and Fenris approached the main platform. Seamus seemed so peaceful, bowed as if in prayer, but she knew this was not a pose he would have taken voluntarily. _

The templar clambered to his feet, panting for breath. The rest of the men were dead.

"Stand down," Cullen said, turning his sword to him.

Marian collected herself, willing focus. She had never been hit with a cleanse so directly before. She struggled with the dullness in her chest and the lack of feeling that radiated through her body. She swallowed the emptiness, reflecting that this, in some small, insignificant way, it must be a faint echo of tranquility.

"Lay down your sword," Cullen said. His voice echoed harshly in the Chantry.

The templar said, "I don't answer to you, Ser. I answer to the Maker. The heathens must perish."

Fenris saw it before she did, which was a tribute to how disoriented she was. The templar reached back, flicking his wrist, and Fenris uttered something. Cullen moved fast—amazingly fast, in all that armor—shielding her with his body, taking the barb that was meant for her. Cullen grunted at the impact and moved forward, swinging his shield. He struck the man fully across the chest, forcing him back. He thrust, hitting that vulnerable spot between a templar's chest plate and sleeve mail, and the man crumpled.

Marian saw Petrice moving quickly across the main floor, and as she refocused, she saw the Qunari archer as well. She warned her, or tried to, and as Petrice turned, an arrow struck her solidly in the chest.

Cullen automatically moved back, shielding Marian, but the Qunari was only interested in Petrice. A second arrow finished the gristly work and he vanished into the shadows and incense smoke of the halls. Fenris went to notify the Viscount's office. Marian still felt nothing but emptiness on the inside.

"How much of this is yours?" Cullen asked, meaning the blood. She reached out to him, tentatively touching the gash in his armor where the leather was torn and bloody. He had evidently removed the barb when she wasn't looking.

"I can't heal," she told him softly. "I can only burn."

"Are you injured?" he asked, touching her forehead, looking for a concussion.

"No," she said, forgetting the cut on her shoulder; she had not regained feeling yet.

The Viscount arrived and cradled the body of his dead son. The game had changed yet again.

* * *

When Cullen finished his report, Meredith crossed her arms, her lips pressed into a thin line. She was not pleased by any of it, least of all that a templar defector had been among Petrice's followers. "Now, you," she told Marian. "Report."

Marian did. Cullen's report, which contained a level of precision and detail that revealed a keen sense of observation, had given her enough time to shake off the effects of the cleanse and collect her thoughts. When she was finished, she added, "The Arishok will consider this a direct provocation. Seamus was under the protection of the Qun."

"From what you've told me, he considers our very way of life a provocation. Why is this significant?"

"I saw at least two hundred warriors and a dozen saarebas in the compound. The Order should be prepared for the possibility that an armed intervention may be required."

"You think they will attack?" Meredith asked, somewhat incredulous.

"I think we are fast approaching a point where there will be no possibility of diplomatic resolution. The Arishok is running out of options, from his perspective."

"An attack on the city would be suicidal," Meredith said, dismissively. "They have nowhere to retreat. Regardless, this is the Viscount's mess. We have too few men as it is. The docks are the Guard's jurisdiction."

Marian did nothing to conceal her frustration. "Cullen, you saw the ones at the gate, tell her," she said, and Cullen hesitated. Marian realized the mistake and added, "Forgive my lack of formality, Knight-Captain. You saved my life, and I am grateful. I'm not quite myself."

"I performed my duty, Serah Hawke, nothing more," he told her. "But you are welcome." To Meredith, he said, "The Qunari at the entrance of the compound were formidable. If Serah Hawke's estimate of their numbers is correct, the Guard would not be able to hold them. They lack the training and the numbers."

"Do you think the Arishok is so mad as to attack directly?"

"I must defer to Serah Hawke's knowledge of the Arishok and his customs, having never met him myself."

"I see. And what is your suggestion, Serah Hawke?" Meredith asked.

"The Arishok told me that they are looking for a stolen relic, a holy book, and they cannot leave until they find it. If the tome can be located, before things go too far—"

"The heathens must give up their false religion," Meredith said. "We cannot enable them by helping them find their so-called holy relics. They must see the Andraste's truth and embrace the Maker. There is no other way."

"If you believe that, you're no different than the Arishok," Marian said. As soon as the words were out, she realized she'd overstepped. Meredith's gaze fixed on her, and Marian found herself transfixed by how remarkably clear and blue her eyes were, how beautifully self-assured.

"You are injured and tired," Meredith said, abruptly. "You are dismissed."

Marian left them. She returned to her room, aware of the stares and whispers her blood-spattered clothes drew from the other mages in the halls. She pretended not to notice and held her head high. Her kinship with the other mages in the Circle was tenuous at best.


	8. Chapter 8

Before her arrival, Marian had not been certain whether the First Enchanter or the Knight-Commander would be the greater immediate threat. After her harrowing, she had her answer, but the path forward was still not clear. The deeper she went, the murkier the waters became.

When Orsino made the first move, summoning her for a private meeting, she expected the pretense of small talk. It was somewhat refreshing when he passed her a cup of tea and got straight to the point.

"I know what you're doing, Serah Hawke, and you need to stop."

"I could say the same to you," she replied. She took a sip and pulled back immediately. The tea was scalding; it burnt her tongue.

"I do what is necessary, so we may survive," Orsino said. "We're not so different."

"We're very different," she said, coldly.

"Are we? You could have chosen any man, but you didn't choose _just_ any man, did you? Surely you've asked yourself why."

She'd prepared herself for the possibility he knew about Cullen, nevertheless, the direct accusation made her heart skip. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Is it the danger he represents?" Orsino asked, as if he hadn't heard her. "Does it excite you? Do you secretly want to be dominated by him? These infatuations tend to center around control. At least, for me it did." He took a sip, watching her reaction over the rim of his cup. "I thought you were a brash, lovesick little girl at first, but I'm beginning to appreciate how cunning you can be."

She put her cup down before he could see the tremble that ran through her fingers. "You must be held accountable," she said, forcing her voice steady, hating how easily he had upended her confidence. "You gave Quentin access to dangerous information and he used it to butcher women. People are dead because you were curious, because you wanted to push the limits and you knew he would do it for you. My mother is dead, and I hold you responsible. He was mad. You are not."

He didn't outright deny it, which surprised her. "What do you want me to say, Serah Hawke?" he asked, sounding tired. "That I am truly sorry about your mother? I am, and will be for the rest of my days. But all I can offer—"

"Why?" she blurted. "Why help him? You, of all…" She shook her head. She'd expected the First Enchanter to be better, to be the best, to be an example. When she'd learned that he was responsible for supplying Quentin with the texts he used for his research, she'd been stunned. Surely the "O" in the letters couldn't be First Enchanter Orsino? But he was.

"In the beginning I saw a practical application. A healing application. Quentin went much too far and what he did was monstrous. No one is sorrier than I, but where could I turn? Reporting him would have endangered everyone in the Circle, countless innocent mages, and would have destroyed the balance of power. I barely keep her in check as it is."

He was being frank. Too frank, which meant he was confident. All the evidence she'd found was circumstantial at best and he must have known it.

"You have knowingly allowed blood magic to flourish in Kirkwall and you have provided dangerous information to mages and apostates, which has in turn been used against citizens. You know this is a dangerous place, you know the veil is particularly weak here, and you persist allowing it to happen. You're still doing it, even after Quentin provided an example of the worst possible outcome. It is reckless, irresponsible, and immoral."

He smiled, but it was humorless. "Reckless? Irresponsible? You lack introspection, Serah Hawke."

"Whatever I've done pales in comparison to this and you know it."

"You have proof?" Again, he was confident.

"We both know I don't need it," she said, trying to sound confident herself. "Meredith already has her suspicions. Quentin's letters, and validation from someone she trusts, will be sufficient."

"Which brings us back to your man. Was it your intention to use him this way all along?" Marian's stomach lurched, but she said nothing. Orsino put down his cup. "What are you doing, Marian?" he asked, and his voice was gentle, fatherly. "You must understand this is a fling to him. Templars cannot love us. It conflicts with everything—their training, their religion, their nature." He studied her, looking for a reaction, and she steeled herself, unwilling to reveal anything, even the barest glimpse of feeling. "Surely you've seen how the female recruits pine for him," he continued. "They were here before you, they will be here when he's finished with you, and they are far more suitable partners. Don't be naïve about your place; we are a distraction to them, tantalizingly forbidden, easily replaced."

He was wrong. Completely, utterly, irrefutably wrong. Nevertheless, a tiny voice deep in the recesses of her mind whispered, _But what if he's right? _She swiftly tamped the voice down, stifling it.

"I ask you again: what are you doing?"

She found her voice, and said, "I do what is right."

"Moral absolutism is an indulgence of the young. The reality is we must all do what we need to survive," Orsino told her, almost kindly. "I won't judge, if you return the courtesy. But know that you are either with us or against us. I will protect my mages, whatever the cost."

"You're only trying to protect yourself. You don't want Meredith to know what you've done."

"You would tell her? She has already requested the Rite of Annulment, that's how tenuous our situation has become. You would endanger us all, including yourself, and irrevocably change the power structure here. And for what? Some misguided sense of justice? Anger? Revenge?"

She had a sudden, visceral image of her mother, stitched together and suffering, trapped in a body that was not her own. She felt the phantom taste of bile in her throat and swallowed reflexively, but the taste persisted. "It's not about revenge," she said. "It's about what's right."

"Would your mother agree?" Orsino asked. "Is this what she would want you to do?"

Marian was staggered by the speed with which he continually disarmed her. Most disturbing was how eerily precise his barbs were, alighting on weak points she hadn't even acknowledged she had, as though she were a paper target with circles drawn around the heart.

He was right, of course. The suggestion that Meredith might use the Rite of Annulment changed everything. Her mother would have been horrified by the possibility.

"Serah Hawke, I only want to protect you," Orsino said. "I know you don't want to hear these things, but you need to face the truth. As long as you are here, you must accept the reality of the Circle. We are in this together, now."

"Do you sincerely believe blood magic is an acceptable last defense?" Marian asked.

"I have been in the Gallows a long time and I have wrestled with the Knight-Commander for a long time. Each day, the noose tightens. It is only a matter of time before we must fight for our lives. They have steel, cleanses, smites, tranquility, Annulments… perhaps even the goodwill of the Maker, if one believes such things. We must hone every weapon, outside and within, and be prepared to fight with every scrap of knowledge and every ounce of strength or they will cut us down."

It was a bleak view. A harrowing one. But Marian felt a ring of truth in it. She could not deny the destruction she'd seen at the hands of mages, but she could neither deny the abuses of high-ranking templars such as Alrik, the institutional corruption, and the suffocation of captivity in the Gallows, the reality that she was truly the Chantry's chattel now.

"Serah Hawke, if this choice were easy we would all be friends. It's not easy. It never will be."

He was doing his best, she realized. He was trying to do what he believed was best for the mages under him. It occurred to her he might be persuaded. If Cullen could persuade the Knight-Commander, in even the smallest way, couldn't she persuade Orsino as well? Did everything have to revolve around jaded deception, with blood magic the ever-present trump card?

"I have decided to take another assistant," Orsino said, and she recognized the peace offering. He still considered her a threat or, at the very least, someone worth consideration, and he was offering security in exchange for her silence. She took some solace in that. "Please consider the position. I believe we can help each other."

"I hope so," she replied.

* * *

Orsino was not the first person to suggest that Cullen did not truly love her.

The first—admittedly not a person—had been the pride demon.

The horrid thing had been an amalgamation of everything that had ever terrified her as a child, a woman, and a mage. At the time, it seemed it had been created solely to annihilate her, but this was vanity. It found her of no consequence. It merely wanted to something to play with, a toy to break.

It told her Cullen would never care about a mage, certainly not a lying, selfish one such as herself. How could he actually love someone who jeopardized his career and had all the recklessness of every mage-turned-abomination? It offered to change her, to make her different, to remove the taint of magic. With its help, she could become something not-Marian, and therefore worthy of Cullen's affection.

After that didn't work, the demon tried a new tactic. It recalled every fantasy she'd ever had, every imagined encounter or wistful glance, twisting her desire into something perverse and dysfunctional. It was humiliating beyond measure to listen to the demon recount all those late-night imaginings, brought forth by needy, sticky fingers desperate for release, and pontificate on how revolted Cullen would be by her wantonness and vulgarity.

When she couldn't bear to hear it say Cullen's name anymore she did as she'd done with Orsino—she lied. But rather than feigning ignorance, she chose deflection. She told it she loved Anders.

The demon laughed in her face.

It hadn't had this much fun with a human in ages, it said.

The only thing more pathetic than a mage who loved a templar, it told her, was a mage who loved a templar who didn't love her back, who would arrest her as soon as fuck her because that was how insignificant she was.

It got worse. One by one, the demon trotted out her father, Bethany, Carver, and her mother, each more disappointed in her wretchedness than the last. They rued her selfishness, her stupidity, her pride, her vanity. If only she would let the demon help her. Maybe then she would finally be worth loving.

Even now, thinking about the harrowing sent an icy jolt down her spine. Much like Orsino's warnings, the demon's taunts were intended to linger in the back of her mind, following her doggedly, nipping at the heels of every decision she made.

The worst part wasn't all the things it said to her, the taunts and jabs, the sneering condescension at her deepest, most intimate feelings, the parading of dead loved ones like grotesque puppets. The worst part was near the end, when she almost started to believe it.

Almost. Even in that shadowy place with the black city always on the horizon, she felt Cullen's presence. She knew he was at her side. He was waiting for her to return.

She was determined not to disappoint him, not this time.

* * *

Marian knew the Knight-Captain's habits. He worked late on certain nights, doggedly chipping away at the piles of paperwork and minutia in his dreary office tucked away in a forgotten corner of the eastern wing. He once made an offhand comment that he'd been placed there as a punishment and stayed because he'd grown fond of the décor. She suspected the truth was that he appreciated the solitude, even if it was in a small, dark, windowless office teeming with _bureaucracy_.

The halls were deserted, but she made sure to shut and lock the office door when she arrived. She hadn't forgotten the knock last time, nor the risk of being discovered _in flagrante delicto_, as the Tevene saying went. When he looked up from his paperwork she smiled, apparently unconvincingly.

"What's wrong?" Cullen asked, rising from his desk. He was in dress uniform. She'd never seen him out of armor before. She was immediately distracted, her eyes drawn to the breadth of his shoulders and the way the jacket tapered at the waist. She realized what she was doing and steered her attention back to his face. She felt wicked for thinking so, but he was even more handsome when his brow was furrowed slightly with concern.

"Orsino knows," she said. "Or suspects. We have an understanding, and I don't think he'll say anything, but I wanted you to know." She leaned against the edge of the desk.

The concerned look vanished. "An understanding?" he asked.

"He offered me a position as an assistant."

Cullen seemed unsurprised. "Will you accept?"

"Yes," she said. She looked away, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. What would happen to him if Meredith found out? She'd never asked, because she was afraid of the answer. "Would she transfer you?" she asked.

"I don't think so," he said. "Three years ago, perhaps. But she relies on me much more now and there is no suitable replacement among the Lieutenants." Unsurprisingly, he'd put some thought into it.

"Cullen, you've worked so hard to get where you are. This is your calling. If you don't—"

He took her face in his hands and bent to kiss her, silencing the thought. She'd never felt his touch ungloved; she was transfixed by his warmth. "I'm not letting you slip away," he said, running his fingers down her arms and clasping her hands tightly.

"Better hold on," she teased, stepping closer.

"I intend to," he replied, pulling her into his arms. She was acutely aware of how different his embrace was this time: the press of solid warmth, the absence of cold, unyielding steel and rough mail. The kiss was supposed to be light, but when her lips brushed his she felt a rush of desire she was powerless against. She kissed him again, more urgently this time, and he responded with a heatedness that made everything else fade in the distance. He ran his fingers through her hair and she stood on tip-toe, the better to reach him. She parted her lips and he delved slightly, tasting her. She moaned and reciprocated, then bit lightly at his lip. He grunted and abruptly slid his hands around her backside, lifting her onto the desk.

She ran her hands along his chest, fumbling with the buttons on his jacket. She was still completely entranced by the feel of him, by the shift of lean muscle under her palms and the rise and fall of his chest. She wanted to touch him. She had to touch him.

"Maker, you are so beautiful," he said, kissing her roughly, and the urgency in his voice tightened things low in her belly.

_Oh._

She gave up on the buttons and pulled him to her. He resisted and she felt the reason against her thigh: he was hard. He tried to apologize and pull back, but she stroked him through his trousers and he groaned, closing the distance, crushing his mouth to hers. She felt him move, hot and male and ready, under her palm.

_Oh, Maker._

She parted her legs, drawing him closer still, and when he pressed against her there, _there!, _she arched her back and nearly lost her mind. He kissed his way down her neck, hesitating near the neckline of her robe as prudence wrestled with desire. Desire won. He planted a purposeful kiss at the lowest point, his tongue flicking briefly against her skin, and she gasped, aching to feel that kiss elsewhere.

_Oh, Maker, yes._

She seized the clasp on her belt, intending to eliminate all barriers between his lips and her body, but he caught her hands, holding them firmly.

"Not here," he managed. "I don't want it to be here." She had expected this; a part of her felt the same way. What she hadn't expected was what came next: his breath on her ear, his whispered, "I intend to take my time with you," in a tone so low and with such promise it sent a shiver through her.

If he touched her just once, right now, she would likely explode. She wanted to explode. Very, very badly. But he was right. Not here. Not in the Gallows. She wanted to have him all to herself in a place that was their own, a place they had chosen.

He tried to disentangle himself, but he wasn't quite able to stop himself from kissing her. She tried to help by slowing their exchanges, making them chaste and fleeting. He followed her lead and the initial wave of passion subsided until they were breathless and flushed, but significantly less heated.

He spoke first. "Ah, that was…" He glanced away, treating her to that little glimmer of shyness she so loved. "We should do that more often," he said, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

She giggled and began buttoning his jacket, if only for an excuse to keep him close.

"You seem pleased with yourself," he said with a small smile as he watched. She thought _he_ seemed pretty pleased with himself, truth be told.

"Oh, I am, Knight-Captain," she said, admiring how excellent he looked in rumpled clothes. Yes, she was immensely pleased. "I'm reluctant to leave you here alone with all this paperwork, but I should probably give the First Enchanter my answer before curfew."

He made an attempt to smooth out his uniform and said, "You can tell me anything. I hope you know that."

She met his gaze. "I don't want to put you in a position where you have to choose between my interests and your own." Before the Circle, they'd had an unspoken agreement: he didn't ask and she didn't tell. The agreement had served them well and might still. As much as she wanted to tell him about Orsino's endorsement of blood magic, she knew he would be forced to act, either in her interest or in Meredith's. She didn't want to put him in that position. There was also the uncomfortable reminder that the last time he had faced such a choice he had chosen the Order.

Certainly, the delivery of such information to Meredith would fulfill her end of the odious bargain and she would be granted leave from the Circle. But what if Meredith didn't keep her word? The Knight-Commander might not be inclined to honor the original terms without pressure from the Viscount's office. And what would happen to the Circle besides? What if Meredith had indeed sought permission for the Rite of Annulment, as Orsino suggested?

"I appreciate your intent," Cullen told her. "I just want you to know I'm here for you. You can ask me for anything. I can't guarantee that I'll be able to assist, but I don't believe our interests are really so different."

His sincerity emboldened her, and she asked, "Did the Knight-Commander request the Right of Annulment?"

He was taken aback by the question. "Certainly not that I know of," he said. "Where did you hear that?"

"Orsino."

"If she has, it means she believes there is a need for extreme measures." He was watching her carefully. "If you know about something dangerous—" He stopped himself. "No, surely Meredith would have said something to me if she were that concerned." He squeezed her hand reassuringly. "I will find out."

"You're not worried," Marian said, relieved.

"Rumors abound in the Gallows. It was like that at the Tower, too. The gossip is out of control. I'm surprised Orsino would be taken in by it. The Rite of Annulment is an absolute last resort. Even in Ferelden, when the entire Tower was overrun, Greagoir declined to use it."

It was a testament to Cullen's sway over her that she was reassured so easily. The mere idea of Annulment sent a chill to her core, which was no doubt Orsino's intent, but Cullen's dismissiveness chased away her concerns. Certainly, if Meredith were to do such a thing, he would be the first to know.


	9. Chapter 9

Senior Enchanter Devan was tasked with training Marian in the duties and responsibilities associated with being one of the First Enchanter's assistants. He'd spent the better part of their first meeting sizing her up, asking questions, and being generally unimpressed. "Serah Hawke, there are a lot of qualified mages in the Circle and all of them have more seniority than you. I appreciate that you're fluent in Tevene and well-read, but this position benefits from a certain level of hands-on experience. Your records indicate you've never been formally tested in casting."

Marian hadn't expected the Circle mages would want to hold hands and sing songs with her. She shrugged off the criticism. "Would you like a practical demonstration?" she asked.

"If you think it will help," Devan said, in a tone that suggested he didn't think it would. "You'll need to requisition a staff from—"

"No need," Marian said. She only used her father's staff, and it was currently in safe keeping.

The casting hall next door was empty, affording her the opportunity to really cut loose (it had been _so_ long). She decided to take it. No playing around with ice, not this time. She wanted to burn. She focused on the space in front of her right palm and conjured a flame. She reveled in the feel of the heat against her skin, the pulling sensation of her will being channeled through her body. She carried her fire close and had the scars to prove it. She ignited her second hand and focused the flames, feeling the crackle. She combined the two, forming a perfect sphere, and held it.

Devan was watching her with more interest now. "Steady hands," he said. "But what will you do with it?"

She pushed. The fireball exploded outward in an arch, lengthening into a wave that smashed into the floor at the end of the hall. There was a flare of heat that lingered as steam rose from the cold stone. She turned to him expectantly, rubbing her hands together, enjoying the brief sensitivity in her fingertips.

"I'm stand corrected." He offered his hand and they shook. "Most of the mages here focus on the creation or spirit branches. It's always nice to meet another elemental mage."

She felt his hand go cool in hers. "Show off," she said, smiling, her breath visible in the newly-chilled air. It reminded her of Bethany. "You'll have to show me that one."

"Of course," he said, pleased.

They were friends after that.

* * *

Her primary assignment was to help Devan maintain the library archives. It occupied most of her time, but she found the work enjoyable and it dovetailed nicely with her own interests. She hadn't expected to befriend the other assistants, but when her competence became apparent they opened up to her. She forged alliances with them all, but none of these relationships progressed as naturally or easily as her friendship with Devan. She found herself wondering how she'd gone this long without knowing him. They had a lot in common.

Devan discussed Circle politics with her quite openly and she was thankful for the window. He asked her a lot of questions, mostly about being an apostate, but also regarding her dealings with the templars. She wasn't sure if he was merely curious or if he had a purpose. Nevertheless, the questions were fairly innocuous, and she answered them honestly. In return, she had a few questions of her own.

"The Rite of Annulment," Devan mused. "You're worried about that old thing?"

"The First Enchanter is worried," Marian said pointedly.

"He does that. But to answer your question: yes. She requested it. Before you panic, a request and approval are two very different things. She's requested it before. The Divine doesn't grant such things lightly."

"How do you know about this?" Marian asked.

Devan leaned towards her and said, in a confidential tone, "Karras."

"The First Lieutenant told you? Just like that?"

"We have a working relationship. He keeps me informed."

"You trust him?"

"The information's good, in my opinion. But I couldn't confirm it, he says Meredith gave him the sealed request directly and no one else was told."

Marian lost track of what she was doing and had to start at the beginning of the stack. "Is that normal? Going behind the Knight-Captain's back?"

"It happens. Sometimes the Knight-Captain gets distracted."

"He doesn't seem very distracted to me," Marian said, plucking a scroll from the pile.

"You don't know him like we do. Anyway, don't worry. If approval comes back, that's the time to worry. Until then, there are more pressing matters. For example, shall I spend all day restoring _this_ moldy illegible scroll or _that_ one?" He held the two up for inspection.

"This one," Marian suggested, handing him a particularly terrible specimen from her own stack. She was trying to keep her tone light.

"I will," he said. "If you'll stop worrying."

"Sounds like a deal," Marian said, knowing her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. Devan took the scroll and dropped the subject. He always knew when to let things be.

* * *

Marian was awakened by a sharp, persistent knock at her door. When she answered, Devan was waiting for her in a wrinkled cotton tunic and breeches, his hair slightly rumpled.

"Come with me," he said. Marian hesitated, wanting to change out of her thin nightdress into something more respectable, but he motioned impatiently and she joined him.

"The Knight-Captain and the First Lieutenant went to the alienage for an arrest," he said. "They're back, and Orsino has asked us to be prepared to take instructions." Devan had told her about this—about how Orsino might call upon them at any time to deal with, "delicate matters." She followed him down the halls, the stone tiles cool against her bare feet.

When they arrived at the front entryway, several templars were hauling a canvas-wrapped mound through the doors. Marian didn't understand what it was until an arm slipped out from the wrapping to slide along the floor, revealing the mottled, corrupted skin of an abomination. The templars dragged the heavy body across the hall, leaving a trail of gore in their wake. Devan had told her about this, too: that abominations were sometimes brought to the Gallows for study and eventual disposal. The templars hauled in a second body, just as gristly, and she looked past them, through the sea of dark and blood and armored bodies, until she found Cullen.

He was slick with sweat and covered in blood. In his arms he carried an elven girl, probably no more than seven or eight, with dirty feet and matted brown hair. Her arms were wound tightly around his neck.

Immediately, Orsino moved to take the child from him, uttering soothing sounds Marian could not quite make out. The girl resisted at first, but two of the senior enchanters moved to help, and they extricated her, bundling her up and carrying her off to the healers.

"Serah Devan," Orsino called. "Serah Hawke." He gestured to Karras and Cullen respectively, and Marian hesitated, unsure what was expected of her.

"You've been assigned to the Knight-Captain," Devan whispered. "Fetch lyrium from the Quartermaster, then go to the clinic. Do whatever the healer asks, do whatever the Knight-Captain asks. We'll talk later."

She went to the Quartermaster's office and found the mother was already up and preparing vials for the templars who had returned. "For the Knight-Captain?" the mother asked, rubbing her eyes as she consulted her massive ledger. She disappeared into her vault. There was a rustling of paper and a clinking of glass. In a moment, she returned and said, "This should do it," and handed her a capped vial.

She found Cullen in a private room in the back of the clinic. He was sitting on a cot, removing his gauntlets. A gash, so dark red it was nearly black, ran down his neck and blood seeped through the mail on his right side. His armor had been badly damaged on that sie and some of the links were split and flayed. He looked up when she entered and held out his hand. She thought he wanted the lyrium, and offered vial, but he gestured past it—to her—and she went to him. He hugged her waist, resting against the flat of her stomach. She ran her fingers through his blood-spattered hair.

"They were trying to protect their child," he said.

She kept stroking his hair; she did not know what else to do. After a moment, he pulled away, and after another, Senior Enchanter Odell swept into the room. Her eyes immediately went to the vial in Marian's hand, which glowing brightly under her touch.

"Drink, Knight-Captain," she said, showing him her own drought as if to say, _If I have to, so do you._

Cullen did not immediately take the vial. Marian thought she understood why. She handed it to him and turned away, busying herself by filling the washbasin with water from the pump. She felt a faint prickling of power along the back of her neck. When she turned back, Cullen was reaching for the strap anchoring his right pauldron, but Odell stopped him.

"Ser," she said. "Try to relax. Let us do that."

Odell showed Marian how to undo the clasps to remove the pauldrons and neck guard. Together, they lifted the chest plate, which was startlingly heavy, and set it aside. It took some time to work through the various layers of metal and leather. The healer paused periodically to inspect Cullen's right side, particularly as they removed the damaged mail, and when they reached his under padding she said, "Hold still a moment, Ser." The force of the impact had caused parts of the cloth to be embedded in the wound. Cullen did not react as the healer moved gingerly around his side, trying to separate the fibers from damaged flesh, but Marian internally winced with each tug of batting, each flash of tweezers, and each press of nimble fingers.

"All right, you can take that off, Ser," Odell said. "Carefully, now."

Cullen slowly peeled off his sweaty undershirt, pulling it up over his head.

When Marian saw the first of the scars, she had the unhappy sense of being an intruder. She knew they were something he wasn't ready for her to see. As he uncovered more of his chest and back her discomfort grew. She had no illusions about the dangers of being a templar. She knew that demons could tear through steel and shear mail, she'd heard stories of templars being all but dissected by creatures from the Fade. It was one thing to hear cautionary tales about unknown templars and quite another to see the marks of those struggles laid bare.

Most of the scars appeared to be the result of glancing blows, but a few carried chilling hallmarks of precision and deliberation. The worst were a series of harsh, jagged lines starting along his upper back and ending in depressions, where something sharp had been raked across diagonally, tearing away a section of the dorsal muscle at the end. It must have been an excruciatingly painful injury, requiring aid from a talented healer and a long recovery. All this, she thought, even after being ensconced head to foot in armor, training for years in the arts, and being fortified with blessings and prayers.

"Knight-Captain, please, try to relax," Odell said, all her attention focused on his injured side. "You're too tense."

Marian's eyes flicked to Cullen, who was staring steadfastly at the wall. He was self-conscious. Odell was still removing a few stray fibers from the open wound with tweezers, but this was what made his jaw clench—her seeing him like this. When she was sure Odell was distracted, Marian leaned close and purposefully touched the largest of the scars. She slowly ran her palm along its length, her fingers trailing down his back, savoring the simple act of touching, as she always did during the fleeting moments they were allowed direct physical contact. He briefly closed his eyes.

"That's right," the healer said, her eyes fastened on his side. "Just relax, Ser."

Once Odell had fully prepared the injury, she turned to her magical skillset. She drank part of her lyrium vial and began the work of repairing the damaged tissue, channeling regenerative energy to knit the flesh and muscle. In time, the injury was transformed into a smooth stretch of pink skin. The healer wiped her brow and quaffed the remainder of the lyrium. She was pale and sweating, a slight furrow in her brow. Anders had always gotten that way, too.

"Is there anything I can do?" Marian asked, and Odell gestured to the gash on his neck, which Marian had already prepared for healing. "I can't," Marian said.

"You know the mechanism," the healer said.

She did; she had studied creation magic while at the Circle. But Marian kept thinking back to her first, and only, attempt to heal a person. She remembered pressing her hands to her mother's chest, channeling all that warmth and light, just like Anders had told her, just like she'd read, reciting the instructions again and again in her mind. She also remembered finally pulling away, exhausted, her face drenched with sweat (or tears), and finding her mother's skin cool and still under her hands. If she'd only gotten there faster—if she'd only taken Anders with her—if she'd only properly trained in the healing arts, instead of being consumed with fire and restoring her family's legacy—if she'd only—if only—if only.

"Focus at a point below the surface," the healer said, misunderstanding her apprehension.

Marian lifted a hand to his neck, unsure. She reached out instinctively, searching for the creative energies that hovered in the periphery, but did not pull them in. She wanted to help him, but she couldn't bring herself to touch him that way, to show him what she was.

It was irrational, of course. He knew she was a mage. He'd seen her use magic twice now. But still she hesitated, unable to take that step, that seemingly final reveal. Before, both displays of power had been in self-defense. This was different—willful, intimate. She acknowledged that she was afraid, but pushed the thought deep down so she would not have to face it. Magic was something she used against her enemies; it was something she kept hidden and locked away. It was a destructive power, used only as a last resort. Even in the Circle she'd avoided exercising her talents in public, especially in front of the templars. Old habits were hard to break.

"Serah Hawke, that is not necessary," Cullen said, and she lowered her hand, simultaneously grateful and embarrassed.

"Stage fright won't do in a crisis," Odell told her, not unkindly. "Pay attention, now." She worked quickly, a perceptible aura of power flaring from her outstretched hands, and Marian watched as the skin slowly knit, the cut sealing inward until there was no evidence he'd ever been wounded at all.

"Take a day out of armor, Knight-Captain," the healer said. "You should take a day off, but I know you won't listen. Get some rest."

"Thank you, Senior Enchanter," Cullen said, pulling on the plain cotton shirt Marian had provided from the clinic's wardrobe.

"If you need anything else, let Serah Hawke know," Odell told him. To Marian, she said, "Come see me, if you want to train. I felt you reach. I know you can do it."

When the healer left, Cullen reached for Marian's hand and she laced her fingers through his. Cullen sometimes had a sense of weariness about him, but right now he looked completely exhausted.

"I'm sorry," she said, lamely.

"I want to see you," he said. "I miss you."

"Already?" she teased.

"Every moment you're elsewhere," he replied.

She felt the same way. She told him where he could find her in the library. "D is for disorganized," she muttered. Actually, D was for demons, and that particular section was always a mess because of all the curious recruits and apprentices rooting about for salacious material or exciting stories, and finding nothing but dusty old books in dry Arcanum.

"About what you asked me before," he said. He meant the Rite of Annulment. "I spoke with her. It's only a rumor."

Marian nodded. They could talk about it later, when the time was right. "You should rest."

"I can't argue with that. I could sleep for a week." He kissed her hand as he got to his feet. "Would you check on the girl? Orsino took her to the children's dormitory."

"I will," she promised.

* * *

The senior enchanters put the elven girl into a deep, dreamless sleep to speed her recovery. Mages were assigned to keep watch around the clock, but Devan and Marian were not among them. They sat together on the steps in the yard outside the children's dormitory, too keyed up to attempt sleep themselves. The night air was humid and Marian enjoyed the light breeze that cooled her sweat.

"Her entire family is dead," Devan said, shaking his head. He got a faraway look in his eye and abruptly said, "The Knight-Captain's fine?" Marian nodded. Devan patted her knee. "The First Enchanter wants to make sure we're the ones they interact with when they return. We're supposed to remind them that we're not all like the abominations and blood mages they have to fight. We have to remind them that they need us. It encourages them to rely on us and think of us as colleagues rather than charges."

"Do you think it works?" Marian asked.

"I think so. Take Karras, for example. I wouldn't call him a friend, but we have a solid relationship and we can work together." Devan absentmindedly rubbed his thumb against her knee. Marian tried to be casual about the open affection Circle mages displayed towards each other and, increasingly, her. She'd come to realize it had a lot more to do with reassurance and comfort than sexual interest. It meant they trusted her and saw her as one of their own.

"That's why Orsino always picks assistants that get along with the templars," Devan said. "If we can work with them, we can make them remember that we're people, too." He moved closer, his arm brushing hers, and lowered his voice. "The Knight-Captain can be… difficult to reach. But you seem to get along. He responds to you." Marian didn't answer, and he continued. "If you were able to make yourself available to him, it could really help us build a relationship. We need access to him, especially now that Meredith is relying on him more and more."

Marian looked away.

"I'm not saying you should do anything you don't want to do," he added, quickly. "But you know him, right? I heard you were friends on the outside. Would it be so bad?"

"We were friends," Marian said, "but then he arrested me."

"I've offended you."

"I don't want to talk about this."

"It's our job to have good relations with them. To keep them happy. It's for our protection."

"I sleep with a man because I like him, not because I want to use him," Marian said, bristling at the implication and hoping she'd misunderstood. She hadn't.

"I'm only saying… Well, I'm saying it badly, obviously," Devan said, slightly exasperated. "We've been chosen because we will do what is necessary to protect the others. Orsino has put a lot of trust in us to help keep things balanced. No one will judge you for doing what you think best serves our needs. Everyone understands that we do what is necessary to protect the others. That's all it is."

"Is that what you do for Karras?" she shot back, expecting to rile him, and was surprised when he met her gaze unflinching.

"I'm telling you how it is," he said shortly. "I like you. I would never judge you, if you made that decision. I hope you don't judge me."

Marian was taken slightly aback. "Of course not. I had no idea…" She stopped when she realized how naïve she sounded. Of course Circle mages would actively court templars to gain influence over them. Of course Circle mages would do everything in their power to preserve a symbiotic relationship between the two groups.

"You've lived on the outside your whole life," Devan said. "That's why I wanted to talk to you about it. Apostates don't understand templars like we do. I believe they all want to protect us, deep down. Sometimes they just need a little extra incentive. It's okay to give that to them." He squeezed her knee, then stood. "You're very innocent, in a way. I know you don't think so, but you are."

She stood as well, pulling at the nightdress where it stuck to her skin. "I'm not _that_ innocent," she muttered.

He laughed. "It's a good thing, I think. I hope you consider what I said. He's one of the good ones, for what it's worth."

Marian nodded, suddenly feeling uncomfortable—hot, sticky, and a little claustrophobic. Devan walked her to her apartment without further discussion, but once she'd changed and gone to bed, she couldn't sleep. Not for a long while.


	10. Chapter 10

As Marian became increasingly familiar with the contents of the Circle's library she noticed certain deficiencies, particularly on the subject of templar arts. She suspected this was intentional. Even Thrask did not allow mages to attend lectures on smites and cleanses, with the exception of the occasional senior enchanter volunteer who agreed to serve as a live target.

"What do you know about cleansing?" Marian asked. She and Devan were sorting through a particularly dusty stack of books to decide which should be recopied or rebound.

"It's the worst kind of luck," he said. "Next to a smite, of course."

"Is there any offense?"

"None that I know of. And believe me, I've looked. Prevention is the best defense. You have to incapacitate them before they get in range. Fortunately, the range tends to be short." He gave a wry smile. "Never let a templar get close and you'll be fine."

"Is it related to tranquility?" Marian asked.

Devan considered. "It's hard to say what tranquility is like. It's as good a guess as any."

"Do you know a tranquil I could ask?"

"Leave them be."

Marian dusted off one of the books, noting damage to the spine. "What's the harm in it?"

"The templars are very protective of them. Besides, you won't learn anything. They used to be mages, but they aren't anymore. They don't care about us." He glanced up. "Um, I'll be in the archives, if you need something," he said, and went.

Marian looked up and saw Cullen walking down the aisle towards her.

"Good afternoon, Knight-Captain. May I help you find something to read?"

He eyed the stack of dusty books dubiously. "Perhaps something a bit more modern?"

Marian hid a smile and led the way down the rows to the section housing contemporary religious texts, which was predictably deserted. "Looking for anything in particular?" she asked.

"I think I've found it," he murmured, kissing her hand.

She touched the sleeve of his dress uniform. She was finding excuses to touch him, she knew, but she couldn't help herself. "I see you followed orders. How are you feeling?"

"Good as new." He brushed a lock of hair from her face and they exchanged a smile. She wasn't the only one finding excuses. Cullen allowed his hand to drop to his side. "Ah, you seem to be getting on well with Senior Enchanter Devan."

"Yes. He's been very kind to me."

"Has anyone been unkind?" He asked it with forced casualness. She wasn't fooled.

"Not a one," she said. His protective instinct was growing on her. She'd come to understand it was his nature: he was protective because he cared, not because he thought she was incapable.

"I'd like to show you something," he said, and told her when and where.

"What are you up to?"

"Wooing you, I hope," he said, with such sincerity she wanted to smother him with kisses. She opted for restraint. She was making a conscious effort to curb her impulsive tendencies.

When she returned to the pile of books and dust Devan was also returning from one of the archive rooms with an old bound text and a hand-bound translation.

"How is the Knight-Captain?" he asked, in a tone that suggested politeness rather than interest.

"His tastes run to the philosophical, but I was able to interest him in a Genitivi memoir."

Devan peered down the aisle. "He's gone?"

"I assume so."

"Is anyone else here?"

"Only us, as far as I know," Marian said, giving him a look. "What is it?"

"I have a translation I thought you should see. It's a bit different from the rest." Devan handed her the books. She glanced over the translated copy and noticed the M's had a familiar flourish. She'd seen it many times before in her father's notes.

"What is this?" she asked.

Devan didn't answer.

She looked more closely, scanning the page, and frowned. "This is…"

_Blood magic._

She rifled through the pages. This was how Circle mages shared information about blood magic right under the templars' noses. They made copies in the older forms of Tevene, something very few templars could actually read, let alone understand, and circulated them throughout the library. It took years of study to master such languages and the more advanced mages were the only ones who could read and grasp the contents.

This copy was different than the ones she'd seen before because it was in her father's handwriting. Her father had taught her how to read and write in the ancient languages and she'd spent much of her childhood recopying his letters to practice. He always added a tell-tale embellishment to his M's and H's. She'd recognize it anywhere.

She took a moment to absorb this. She was looking at instructions for blood magic translated by her father. Her father, who staunchly opposed blood magic in all its forms, who lectured she and her sister again and again on its dangers.

"Staying silent is one thing," she said. "Actively helping is quite another."

"But you recognize it," he said quietly.

Until now, she'd had nothing of her father's but his staff. No letters or books, no portraits. The staff was the only thing she'd been able to save from the Blight. She knew he escaped from the Gallows before he eloped with her mother, but it hadn't occurred to her that she might find some sign of him here after all this time.

"First you wanted me to fraternize with the Knight-Captain. Now you want me to help you disseminate—this." She couldn't bring herself to even say, 'blood magic.'

"I know you—"

"You don't know me," she said. "And you definitely don't know my father."

"Before you say or do anything, read it."

"Why?" she demanded. "Why are you showing me this?"

"Because I do know you. Review it. We'll talk later."

She stared down at her father's looping script. She could almost see the shadow of his hand moving across the page. She slipped the books under her arm. Despite the contents, she was drawn by the fact that her father had touched these pages. She wanted to see his letters again, even if it was something like this. She missed her family that much.

* * *

The eastern tower had once been home to an observatory, but a storm in 9:21 Dragon destroyed it and it was never properly restored. The staircase leading up to the roof was dusty and clearly disused, a testament to its obscurity. As she neared the top, the stairs creaked, and the door protested loudly when she pushed it open. If anyone else came up there would be plenty of warning.

She crossed the roof, surprised by how cool the night air was. The Gallow's signal flame burned brightly on the other side of the prison, guiding approaching ships and illuminating the giant chains that ran across both sides of the entrance. Across the bay, high on the cliffs, Hightown was aglitter. The lights dimmed as the city spread out and down to Lowtown, and faded almost completely in Darktown, which was nestled far into the cliff side.

Someone moved out of the corner of her eye and she startled.

"It's me," Cullen said. "I didn't mean to surprise you. Watch your step. The lantern won't stay lit, it's too windy." He offered his hand and guided her to a spot near the edge where he'd laid out a blanket. He'd prepared much better than she, she thought, hugging her arms through her summer robe. She was glad to have something warm to sit on and she tugged the blanket around her shoulders.

"It's so much cooler up here," she said, breathing in the sea air.

"The summer heat gets trapped on the lower levels," Cullen said, sitting next to her. "This is the best place to find relief after sundown."

She observed the city's lights, noting they carried the same pulse of life as the stars high above. "For all Kirkwall's chains and history, it is strangely beautiful at night," she said.

"There is a certain duality to it."

Abruptly, she thought of her father, and wondered if he'd ever seen Kirkwall from this vantage point. She voiced the thought aloud.

"I didn't realize your father was a Circle mage," Cullen said.

"When my mother became pregnant with me, he escaped. They eloped and went to Ferelden." Marian pulled the blanket more tightly around her shoulders. Cullen noticed and put an arm around her. "Are your parents…?" she asked as she scooted closer, realizing he'd never spoken of them before.

"They perished when I was young," he said, rubbing her arm through the blanket. "I was raised in the Chantry."

"You have no memories of them at all?" she asked.

He thought about it. "I do remember a bit about her, I think. Something about lighting candles." He smiled. "A parlor trick. I'd completely forgotten about it until now."

"A trick?" Marian asked, understanding what he had not yet realized. Perhaps it was because she was a mage and she always viewed the world through the lens of magical power.

"She would hold my hand in hers and wave both over…" He trailed off, staring at the unlit lantern. She could tell he was working through it. She waited. At length, he nodded, almost imperceptibly, his eyes still focused on the dark lantern.

"Cullen."

He took her hand, running his thumb over her palm and the scarring from those times she'd held her fire a little too close and a little too long. She saw a sort of peace, or perhaps acquiescence, in his expression, and she was emboldened. She reached out with her hand and with the part of her that resonated with the Fade, focusing her will on the lantern, and the wick ignited. The flame danced wild and high until the wind snuffed it out, the smoke dissipating like a ghost. The tiny spark of magic brought with it a sense of relief; she'd released some burden she hadn't fully acknowledged she was carrying.

He gathered her in his arms as if she might slip away with the smoke. She rested her head against his chest, listened to his heartbeat, and felt the rise and fall of his chest. They were alone in the universe for some time. She heard his heart quicken a full minute before he finally spoke.

"When you want to leave, tell me," he said.

She turned to face him.

"You don't belong here," he told her. "You never have. The Circle changes people. I… you're perfect as you are. And this place, it's not for someone like—"

She threw her arms around his neck, pulling him slightly off balance.

"Marian," he said.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She wouldn't cry. "You should wear this more often," she whispered, tugging at the collar of his dress uniform.

"This old thing?" he asked.

She laughed. Her heart relaxed.

He hugged her tightly. "You will tell me, won't you?"

"I will," she promised.

The only tranquil that Marian had known prior to the rite was from Starkhaven. She'd only known her in the loosest sense. She was one of the mages Marian had allowed to escape the caves after Decimus' defeat. She remembered the flicker of torchlight against the mage's relieved face, but not her name. She'd learned this tranquil was assigned housekeeping duties in east tower on the third floor, so instead of returning to her room she made a detour and sought her out. Marian found her exactly where she was supposed to be: partway down the third hall, on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floors.

Marian was not sure how to ask what tranquility felt like. Instead, she asked if the tranquil had ever experienced a cleanse, but the tranquil's answer was vague. Marian described the feeling of a thread being pulled, of a bottomless emptiness from within, but the tranquil was more interested in her duties, which she currently defined as scrubbing the floor and, "Whatever the templars want of me." Marian found her word choice unsettling.

"What do you think you're doing?" a voice called, grinding the conversation to a halt. Two templars were walking the hall for the evening watch.

"Saying goodnight," Marian said, rising. The tranquil went back to scrubbing, unconcerned.

"I know you," one of the templars said. "You're that Ferelden apostate." He gestured to the tranquil. "Admiring your handiwork?"

"Funny, I could ask you the same thing," Marian said.

The templar looked down at her. His expression was obscured by his helmet, but his distaste was evident when he said, "Come along, mage. Back to your room."

"I know the way, Ser," she said.

"Come along," he repeated, reaching for her arm.

"Don't touch me," Marian said, pulling away.

His eyes studied her from behind the helm slits. "I gave you a direct order, mage. Perhaps I didn't phrase it correctly." He motioned to his side and said, "Heel."

A bolt of anger, hot and clear, shot through her. "I'm not going anywhere with you," she said.

The templar patted his gauntleted hand against his leg and said, "Come, girl." When she didn't obey, he added, "Isn't that how your people call their bitches?"

"I don't come on your command."

"Oh, I guarantee you'll come on my command," he said. "All too easily, I'd wager."

"Enough," the second templar said, without conviction, glancing down the hall. "Let it go, Edric."

The first was undeterred. "I hear some mages have a taste for templars," he told Marian, closing the distance between them. "What about you? Do you heel for your master? I bet you'd heel for me and like it."

He was too close, close enough to brush against her, and she reacted. She shoved him as hard as she could, but he was solid and strong; he didn't budge.

"Well," he said. "Doglord has a temper." He pushed her back, effortlessly, and her back hit the wall. "You know what we do to mages with tempers?"

"The same thing you do to the tranquil, I wager," she snapped.

The templar stiffened. "The tranquil are helpless," he said. "Mages are not. Is that why you're bothering her? You think she'll tell you something we've done?"

"You made her tranquil, what wouldn't you do to her?"

"You have nerve, considering you're the apostate who let those robes escape in the first place. We lost three good men because of it." He stepped in closer, crowding her against the wall. She stared up at him, unwilling to flinch. "Three mages were sentenced to death as recompense for the templars they slaughtered. That one," he thumbed towards the tranquil, who was watching the scene impassively, "requested the rite and was granted mercy. They got a choice, at least."

She tried to slide past him and he grabbed her. His grip was crushing.

"Every time a mage escapes this place, there are consequences. Every time an apostate runs free, there are consequences. We're the ones who bring it to bear. We're the ones who get torn limb-from-limb by abominations. We're the ones who have our guts turned inside-out by blood magic." He tightened his grip and gestured to the tranquil. "This was your doing, doglord."

Marian jerked her arm, trying to pull from his grasp, and failed; his hold was ironclad. She turned her head, but he grabbed her face and forced her to look at him.

"Easy," the other templar said, and this time he sounded concerned. "That's enough."

"No. She needs to understand. I want them to understand.

"I'm capable of understanding, Ser. I'm not an animal," Marian said. Her pulse was racing, but she willed calm. It occurred to her he was the type of templar that Devan would want to reach out to—for all his vulgarity and insult—because he was in the middle of the path, torn between hatred and protection. He had not yet chosen sides, as Alrik and Cullen had. "I want to understand," she told him, but his eyes remained hard.

"I will escort her to her room," the tranquil said. Her calm, unhurried voice seemed to bring the templar back to himself. He abruptly let Marian go, as though she were a disgusting thing he'd inadvertently touched, and stepped away.

"It won't interfere with your duties?" he asked the tranquil. He was evidently trying to be civil to her, but his anger was still fresh and it grated at his voice. "You shouldn't be inconvenienced. You've done nothing wrong."

"My duties are whatever is wanted of me," the tranquil replied.

"Go on, then," he said, brusquely.

Marian and the tranquil walked together, side by side, to her dormitory. When her heart slowed, Marian said, "Thank you," wondering if the tranquil understood what she had averted and if she had done so intentionally.

"You are welcome," the tranquil said, her voice cool monotone, betraying nothing.

* * *

Marian couldn't sleep.

She traced the lines of her father's handwriting with a finger, her mind idling over the incantations written there. She moved through the introduction quickly—the translation was flawless—but she began to notice deviations in the instructional portions of the text. The differences seemed subtle on the surface, but were significant in nuance and meaning.

She flipped back to the introduction and read it again. Flawless. She flipped forward, to the sections on practical application. Flawed. The information was not sufficient to complete the spell. The complexity had been undermined. She moved through the text slowly. The old Tevene was difficult to read, even to her, and she would have attributed these word choices to mistakes or laziness if the translator hadn't been her father.

"Maker's breath," she said. Her heart swelled with pride at her father's ingenuity. He had deliberately mistranslated the most crucial sections of the text and had done so discretely. He had crippled the translation so those who read it would not be able to perform the magic as described. This had been his solution to the demands of the Circle, to the argument that blood magic was the true final resort: to corrupt the information.

But was it effective?

Circle mages learned blood magic so they could defend themselves, if the need arose. Attempting the incantations, as writ, would probably fail. An experienced mage would reach for another place, another power, in its stead, and would likely use magic from one of the traditional schools instead. An inexperienced mage would continue to reach and might find something equally sinister to rely upon.

Wasn't intent significant? Her father had blunted the weapon, but the will to use the weapon still existed. These mages would still reach for blood magic and would still be susceptible to possession if they were desperate.

She stared down at the pages. Her father was the smartest man she'd ever known. His solution, however clever, had a limited effect. Was it the best solution? Was it the only solution? She'd come here to find the source of Quentin's information. She'd done so, and she'd found she couldn't stop the flow of information, not without risking the safety of other mages in the Circle. Now, she knew a way to subvert that flow. She couldn't stop it, but she could dull its edge. Would it really make a difference?

Marian shut the book. Her room had no window, but she imagined the stars outside and the glitter of Kirkwall's lights, and felt the thinness of the Veil all about, and she wondered if any of it truly mattered at all.

* * *

Author Note: I've been working on another Cullen/Hawke story called Yes, Knight-Captain and I will probably alternate updates between the two stories. YKC is explicit, so it will not be hosted on .

You can find it here if you are interested: /works/855332


End file.
